


Walk Beside the Sun

by Black_Briar



Series: Earthshine [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Getting Together, Homophobia, Hurt Ferdinand von Aegir, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22746148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Briar/pseuds/Black_Briar
Summary: When Ferdinand goes quiet after their battle in the Red Canyon, Hubert assumes that he's merely acclimating himself to the horrors of war.  But when his condition begins to deteriorate, leading him to do something extremely foolish, Hubert realizes that things are far more dire than they seem.Naturally, he decides he has to do something about it.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir & Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Series: Earthshine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635508
Comments: 27
Kudos: 361





	Walk Beside the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Oh dear, here I go again. In honor of the DLC release, I threw together this little number. Mind the tags as always, and I hope you enjoy! This will be a six-part series and I have the other five parts outlined (with some of them already mostly written) so toss me a follow or a comment if you're interested in the rest!
> 
> Happy reading!

Something changes in Ferdinand after the Red Canyon. 

It’s subtle, and the rest of the Black Eagles are decidedly _not_ , so it’s unsurprising that no one notices but Hubert. Admittedly, it even takes _him_ a few weeks to figure out what’s happened. But once he does, he can’t get it out of his mind.

He has complemented Ferdinand to his face exactly one time in his entire life, and it was to tell him that his positivity and blind optimism was, if somewhat grating at times, an impressive and admirable quality that outshone even Edelgard. Because as much as Ferdinand irritates him at times, it is always somewhat comforting to hear him blather on about perseverance and togetherness and teamwork, never showing even a hint of doubt or fear. Nothing ever really seems to _get_ to Ferdinand, is the thing, not in any way that matters. Sure, Hubert is fully confident in his ability to fluster the man, to annoy him until that blinding positivity cracks down the center _just_ enough to snap at him a bit. But those cracks never last. Ferdinand always bounces back, always has a bright, cheerful word to offer even when everyone else is down. It’s one of the things that Hubert admires about him, one of the things that always makes him look twice whenever Ferdinand walks into a room.

But then.

After the Red Canyon, things feel vaguely quiet and _wrong_ in class. And in the dining commons, and just about everywhere else. It takes Hubert an entire week before Petra makes some disparaging comment about her continuing attempts at conjugating verbs in Fodlan tongue, and there is no immediate, bright insistence that she is doing great, actually, and one little mistake does not mean that she has not already done amazingly at learning the language! And Hubert looks up, unnerved, to see Ferdinand sitting quietly at his desk, arms folded, head turned to look out the window—and he realizes.

Ferdinand hasn’t said a word since the Canyon. 

He’s not sure it’s quite as drastic as it immediately sounds. Surely Ferdinand has said _something_ to one of the professors; they would never let him get away with not participating in class for an entire week. Surely he’s said something to his friends. Surely he’s tried to drag Linhardt to the training grounds, or Dorothea to the dining commons, or Edelgard into a petty argument about something entirely inconsequential. But none of those things have happened within Hubert’s earshot, which, considering the amount of time he spends around the man on a daily basis, is more than a little concerning. And he wonders. 

“Here, let me take a look,” Edelgard cuts in, leaning over Petra’s desk and taking up Ferdinand’s usual, helpful position. “Ah, I see. Here, look—when you’re trying to describe something in Fodlan tongue, you speak those descriptors in the following order: quantity, quality, size, age, shape, color…”

She goes on, but Hubert isn’t listening. He’s watching Ferdinand through narrowed eyes, waiting for him to snap out of it and assure Petra that her grammar is coming along nicely, and that her brief lapses are nothing in the face of her magnificent progress. But it doesn’t happen. Ferdinand stares into nothing, long, pale fingers plucking at the cuff of his sleeve, and holds himself like he’s waiting for lightning to strike him. On edge, electrified, but in such a strangely subtle way that Hubert isn’t surprised that no one has noticed until now.

Hubert thinks back to that battle in the Red Canyon. It had been unfortunate—their first fight against real, deadly opponents, people other than petty thieves and criminals. For Hubert the fight was of little consequence. He’d killed before, and by messier, crueler means than he employed on the battlefield, so going up against Kostas and his goons hadn’t rattled him in the slightest. Edelgard had been the same, facing down her opponents without a blink, and Petra and Caspar had reacted similarly. Dorothea’s resigned acceptance, Bernadetta’s terror, Linhardt’s sleepy reluctance—all of it unfortunate, but none of it crippling, and none of it unexpected. Despite their feelings, all of the Black Eagles had devoted themselves wholeheartedly to killing their enemies. No one was held back on the battlefield by empathy or compassion, regardless of whether or not they felt such things on their own time. 

But what about Ferdinand? Hubert realizes suddenly that after that first fight, when he’d watched Ferdinand slaughter his first victim with nothing more than a declaration of necessity, of loyalty to his mission and of understanding his responsibilities as a noble, that he hadn’t bothered to look. Ferdinand was fine. Ferdinand didn’t care about engaging in brutality, as long as it happened as a result of his _noble obligations_ , as he put it. As usual, nothing rattled his endless optimism.

Or at least, that was how it seemed.

Now, Hubert begins to question that claim.

He tells himself that it’s just because Ferdinand is a necessary part of their attack formation that he begins to investigate the matter, and not because he has developed any type of fondness or admiration for the man over the dozens of times they’ve had tea together, or gone to the market, or stayed after class for training. 

Of course, the truth is a bit more complicated than that.

“Oh, Ferdinand?” Edelgard says, when Hubert approaches her after class on Friday and asks a few pointed questions about the noble’s behavior. “I hadn’t noticed anything, but now that you mention it, he has been a little quiet lately. Ever since the Red Canyon, yes? Perhaps he’s simply taking his time to process the battle. Or, perhaps there’s something else going on that he has yet to tell us about. After all, it seems strange that he would only just now be reacting negatively to combat.”

“He have… _has_ been less cheerful as of late,” Petra tells him, upon being asked the same set of questions. “I myself have contained wonder whether or not he is okay.”

Dorothea is less concerned. “Who, Ferdie? Huh, I guess maybe he’s been a little quiet, but I’m not going to complain! Maybe that means he’s thinking for once, instead of just spitting out whatever nonsense fills up that _noble_ brain of his. I love the guy, but he’s an oblivious mess sometimes!”

“Seems fine to me,” is Caspar’s unhelpful reply. Linhardt just hums, waving a sleepy hand that Hubert guesses his way of saying, _don’t know, don’t care._ When he tries to ask Bernadetta, she shrieks and runs away. _Fantastic_.

Hubert had hoped that once he asked his classmates, they would reassure him that he was being silly and Ferdinand was okay. And it’s _fine_ , that _is_ what he’s gotten. But there’s this nibbling creature in his gut, poking at his insides every time he tries to think that he was wrong, that Ferdinand is as bright as ever, and eventually he caves to it.

Over the following weekend, he wishes he could say that he watches Ferdinand like a hawk. But the truth is, Ferdinand does not emerge from his rooms. Even for regular meals, he is absent—and that is the second sign that something is truly wrong. Hubert paces, not bold enough to make himself vulnerable by actually knocking on the noble’s door but concerned enough to feel a dark pit of anxiety in his stomach. 

When the weekend passes and Monday comes and Ferdinand’s chair remains empty, Hubert is finally driven to action. Regardless of whatever antagonism may still exist between the two of them (and _certainly_ regardless of whatever affection has grown between them in the quiet hours between lectures), Hubert knows he has to help him.

Or…perhaps that isn’t entirely accurate. He’s fully aware that, if he wants to, he can just leave Ferdinand to deal with whatever comes of his silence. But that would leave their class weakened. And beyond that, Hubert begrudgingly acknowledges that he actually _misses_ the positivity that fountains from Ferdinand’s mouth on a daily basis. First Caspar, now Ferdinand—apparently Hubert is making a habit of telling people to stop talking, and then missing their voice when they finally obey him. How troublesome.

Still…in the end, perhaps it’s less that he _has_ to help Ferdinand, and more that he _wants_ to.

He has enough patience to wait until his reason lecture with Byleth, which is a class he knows he can get away with missing, before he slips out to find Ferdinand. All it takes is some flimsy excuse about not feeling well before Byleth lets him leave. Edelgard raises a brow as he departs, unconvinced, but Hubert offers her no explanation. This is something he has taken upon himself. 

Ferdinand’s room is a few doors down from his own, and it takes only a few minutes to make his way there. He’s standing there with his fist raised, ready to pound on the door, before he really pauses and considers the situation.

If he just shows up unannounced with no excuse to visit—no message, no delivery, no request—Ferdinand will know for sure that he came here with purely the intention of making sure he was okay. He’ll know he cares, and Hubert isn’t sure he wants to expose something so _human_ to the man. To Ferdinand he is a shadow, a specter, an unconcerned party that drifts around Lady Edelgard and takes care of the unsavory characters that try to approach her, and occasionally— _occasionally_ —joins him for tea and nighttime walks. He likes the distance. He likes the strength that that distance creates, because it helps him pretend that any _fonder_ feelings just aren’t there.

But. He has a feeling that this is more important.

He raises a hand and knocks.

No one answers.

Hubert frowns, gripped with a mixture of irritation and deepening concern, and knocks again. Then, when there’s still no answer, “Ferdinand! I—no, Lady Edelgard has sent me to check up on you, seeing as you were not in class this morning. Are you awake?”

Nothing.

Something is very wrong. Hubert can feel it in the air, this dull, frightening buzz that gets under his skin and won’t let go. He recoils, caught between alarm and hesitation and anger, before he finally clamps down on his emotions and bites out, “Ferdinand von Aegir, if you’re in there then step away from the door! I’m going to break it down in three, two—!”

The door opens.

Hubert steps back, the power in his palm dissipating in an instant. He looks up, prepared for the worst, and…

It’s just…Ferdinand. Impeccably dressed as always, head held high, not a hair out of place. He doesn’t look like he’s lost any weight as a result of his weekend fast, and there isn’t even a hint of darkness beneath his eyes. He looks perfect. 

“Hubert,” he says, proper as ever. His voice is slightly raspy, but he hides it quickly with a cough. “You could at least give a man a few moments to answer the door before you go blasting it down.”

Hubert stares. That isn’t the voice of someone who hasn’t spoken in a week. And he looks perfectly quaffed, like he doesn’t have a care in the world beyond making sure his uniform is perfectly pressed, his boots polished to a high gloss. 

For one wide, yawning moment, Hubert wonders if he has completely misread the situation.

But then he looks twice, at the only thing Ferdinand can’t cover up with polish and fancy clothes. He looks into his eyes—those sweet, warm eyes that light up everything he gazes upon—and sees nothing but cold and death.

“What are you doing here?” Ferdinand asks, cool as ever.

“I already told you, Lady Edelgard sent me to check on you.” As good an excuse as any, he thinks. But Ferdinand just scowls. 

“If Edelgard wants to know how I am, she can come ask me herself. Goodbye, Hubert.”

Hubert catches the door with his foot right before it closes. “Will you stop for just one second? Lady Edelgard isn’t the only one concerned. If you aren’t well, you owe it to all of us to let us know.”

Those dead eyes spark with disdain, and Hubert blinks in surprise. Ferdinand is usually a bit snappish with him, sure, but he rarely crosses over into genuine anger these days. Their relationship is even _pleasant_ by certain very, very low standards. “I even owe it to _you_ , do I? Come, Hubert, let us not pretend you would be here if not for Edelgard’s express command. You are as cold and cruel as always, and I owe you nothing. If the others are really so concerned, they should have sent someone who at least had a _chance_ of convincing me as much.”

Hubert fills with this sickening mixture of guilt and confusion and anger. “Cease your prattling. _I_ am the one that noticed your strange behavior, and so I was the one that came to see if you were okay. Tell me, and this torment can end for both of us.”

Ferdinand cringes with hurt, and Hubert immediately feels horrible. He’s spoken out of line. Even if whatever is going on has turned Ferdinand’s feelings towards him slightly sour, he has no right to snap back. He’s supposed to be here to _help_.

“I’m sorry,” he tries, but Ferdinand speaks right over him.

“Oh no,” he spits, “you have _more_ than made your point. You can tell the others that I am doing perfectly well, and there is no need for further concern. Now get out!”

“If you’re really fine, why have you been so quiet? Why didn’t you come out of your room this weekend? Why weren’t you in class today?”

Ferdinand glowers. “I fell slightly ill after our battle in Zanado. I will have recovered after today, so you can expect me back in class tomorrow. Unless, of course, this unpleasant visit drives me back to nausea!”

Ferdinand tries to close the door again, and this time he succeeds. Hubert knows that he could just blast down the door and continue their conversation, but he rather suspects that Ferdinand would attack him if he did. 

Perhaps this wasn’t the best way to try to approach the situation. Hubert steps away from the closed door, furrowing his brow in concentration. Seeing as Ferdinand has mysteriously decided to recant any warmth in their relationship on his behalf, Hubert could try to send someone else to see if they could get anything out of him. One of Ferdinand’s friends, preferably. Dorothea might do the trick, despite their spats, and Linhardt got along with him fairly well. The two of them would have a better chance than Hubert, certainly.

Though, there’s a chance such a thing won’t be necessary. Perhaps after today, Ferdinand really will just recover from whatever’s been ailing him since the Red Canyon. Maybe he really will return to class, and everything will be fine.

He’ll just have to wait and see.

* * *

Everything is not fine.

Ferdinand is indeed back in class on Tuesday, but Hubert knows immediately that nothing has changed. The man smiles, he laughs, he chats with the Black Eagles when they swarm to welcome him back, but his eyes are still dead. Like he’s there on the outside, putting on a front to satisfy his friends, but there’s nothing there on the inside. 

Ferdinand seats himself when the bell rings, tugging obsessively at his coat sleeves, at his hair, and Hubert’s chest tightens. 

No one _notices._ Why does no one notice?

…Why has _he_ noticed? Is it all those shared evenings that has led him to expect that spark of joy and enthusiasm in Ferdinand’s eyes? To look for it, even, as a source of comfort?

“Are you okay?” Edelgard asks after class, after everyone else has left. “You seemed distracted today.”

“I’m fine,” Hubert answers simply. “I’m simply…tired, is all.” Which isn’t a lie, technically—it’s just not the entire truth.

Edelgard places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Take care of yourself,” she instructs. “I mean it, Hubert. Sleep well tonight.”

But why doesn’t she understand that Ferdinand needs the advice far more than he does?

There’s not much Hubert can do. He tries at every turn to persuade the other Black Eagles into at least talking to Ferdinand, but all of them seem to think that he’s fine. They go and speak to him, and when they report back to Hubert they don’t have anything bad to say. 

“He seems okay now,” Dorothea tells him at the end of the week, finally having succumbed to Hubert’s incessant requests that she speak with Ferdinand. “Honestly, Hubert, if you think there’s still something wrong then maybe you should go speak to him yourself!”

“I tried that. He yelled at me and slammed the door.”

“Who, _Ferdinand?_ I didn’t know he had it in him! Did you say something stupid again?”

“I did _not—”_ He pauses. Actually, he had made Ferdinand think that him being there was only because Edelgard had put him up to it. The man wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to open up to someone who was there only on the orders of a woman Ferdinand considered to be his greatest rival. But then again, why would that one little thing prompt Ferdinand to toss out all of the progress they’ve made as—and Hubert shudders to admit it— _friends?_

Dorothea smiles, knowing. “See? C’mon, Hubie, just go talk to the guy. He won’t turn you away if you explain things nicely.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“Oh, just a hunch.” She winks. “Give it a try for me, ‘kay?”

That’s hardly comforting. But he doesn’t see any other way.

He goes back to Ferdinand’s room that night, driven by Dorothea’s urging. He’s expecting a fight, maybe even expecting to blast the door down for real this time, but that isn’t the case at all. When he reaches the door to Ferdinand’s room, all it takes is a light touch to push it right open. Not locked. Not even latched. Just…open.

That feeling comes back, as Hubert stands in the center of the room. The feeling that something is so, _so_ very wrong. His skin prickles as he looks around. Ferdinand is nowhere to be seen. His room is immaculate. There is literally no sign that he’s anything but completely okay. 

He paces over to Ferdinand’s desk. One of the doors of his desk is ajar, and he peers inside for no reason in particular. 

_Huh._ Hubert picks up a small foil tube that has been carefully nestled into a box of papers. The label has been ripped off, but when Hubert squeezes a little onto the back of his hand, he realizes that he’s looking at a thick, flesh-colored paste. Concealer, like Dorothea would use. Why would Ferdinand have…?

Wind whistles past the window. The _open_ window. Hubert puts the concealer back and closes the drawer, taking careful steps to the opening in the wall. The window is just _wide open_ , letting in the crisp night air. The white latch is pinkish, like something red got onto it and Ferdinand was unable to completely wipe it clean. Even stranger, there is a very thin, very long hairline crack in the glass, filled with that same pinkish substance. Other cracks branch off from that first one, mostly hidden by the curtain. 

Strange. Very, very strange.

Hubert peers out the window. There’s a worn path in the grass beneath it, leading out into the darkness. From what Hubert remembers, straight out from Ferdinand’s room is a shallow forest bracketed by a long, winding stream. Technically a part of monastery grounds, but students are discouraged from going there. Is that where Ferdinand has gone now? Unarmed, alone, and at night? It’s hardly a good idea to wander alone in the dark. Most of Hubert’s killings take place under such circumstances.

Alarmed, Hubert moves without thinking. He slips through the window, lands light in the flattened grass, and begins to follow Ferdinand’s trail.

He very determinedly does not consider what he will do once he finds the man. He just follows, all of the rumors of kidnappings and scythe-wielding madmen wandering the monastery at night buzzing in the back of his head, and hopes that Ferdinand hasn’t done anything too foolish.

He tracks that path into the forest, letting it take him windingly through the trees. He passes a bend in the stream, jumps over it, and continues. Until…

He stops. In the moonlight, streaming down into a clearing by another bend of the stream, is a huddled figure dressed in red and gold.

Hubert is quick to hide himself behind a tree at the edge of that clearing. The flash of ginger hair and red fabric assures him that this is indeed Ferdinand, but he doesn’t just want to charge forth without some idea of what he’s getting himself into here. He waits.

Ferdinand crouches by the narrow stream. He’s mostly obscured by his cloak, thrown messily over one shoulder, but Hubert can see the place where he’s wrapped his arms around himself. He shakes, given away by the slightest tremble of that same, traitorous cloak, and tucks his head tight between his knees. He looks, every inch of him, _defeated_. 

Hubert’s heart aches for a reason he can’t quite pin down. He moves to call out, to inform Ferdinand of his presence, but he doesn’t get that far.

_“Curses!”_ Ferdinand lurches to his feet. For a split-second Hubert thinks he’s been spotted, until he sees the man whirl around and start pacing aimlessly along the stream. His hands are at his uniform, at his hair, pulling and picking and tugging at everything he can reach. He is a man possessed. “Pull it together,” he chokes, loud enough that Hubert can hear. “Pull it together, Ferdinand…pull it together! _Damn_ you!”

He snaps around, arm raised, and the previously unseen javelin in his hand slams into a tree on the opposite side of the clearing. 

Ferdinand turns again, hands in his hair, and hisses as if the javelin had sunk home into his own flesh. “Why is this getting to you?” he whispers. “Why are you so weak? You promised—you said you could handle it, that you could pull it together. You are a noble. A _noble_. Start _acting_ like one!”

He yells, a wordless garble of agony, and Hubert takes a step back. How can he approach Ferdinand like _this?_ He’s sure the man would rather die than have Hubert find him here at his lowest. He still doesn’t even know what the problem is, how can he just—?

Ferdinand sags as if all the energy has left him. He staggers back to the edge of the stream and just _falls,_ knees hitting the ground so hard that mud splatters up onto his cloak. His shoulders shake violently, convulsively, and Hubert realizes that Ferdinand is crying.

“Why now?” is the desperate, begging plea. “Why _now?”_

Hubert is torn. What is better—to try to comfort Ferdinand and tell him he’s not alone, or to let him have his dignity? He wavers on the threshold of the clearing, uncertain, until the decision is wrenched from him by Ferdinand’s next words.

“There is nothing I can do now,” he whispers. “I have to go through with this alone.”

Hubert’s heart gives an alarmed leap, and he steels himself. Ferdinand has always been a fool, and this decision of his to be alone when he is clearly in pain is no less foolish than any of the others. He needs help, and he is going to receive it. As cold as Hubert can be at times, he isn’t quite _that_ cold.

Hubert steps out from behind the tree, well aware of every boundary he’s about to cross in their relationship, and clears his throat.

Ferdinand freezes. 

“I…” Hubert attempts, then trails off as he realizes he doesn’t even know what to say. “Ah—please forgive me for the intrusion. I happened across your trail and thought…”

Ferdinand whirls around, finally realizing that he hasn’t, in fact, imagined the voice, and he goes even paler when he locks eyes with Hubert. And oh—his _eyes_. Still cold, still dead, but now they radiate a deep, all-encompassing _grief_. They’re red and puffy, wet from crying, and Ferdinand is quick to raise a hand to hide them. 

“Hubert!” he shrieks, rasping and horrified. “By the goddess, have you no decency? I wanted to be alone!”

“And I thought you shouldn’t be alone.” Hubert takes another step forward, searching, and Ferdinand doesn’t back up. 

“What, did Edelgard send you to check up on me again?”

“No. I came of my own accord.”

That makes him pause. Ferdinand peeks through his fingers, suspicious, and finally stops shaking. “…Truly? Did you come out of concern, then?”

There’s something strange to his tone. Something hopeful, something sad. Hubert frowns and says, “I came because you were worrying me, I suppose, so yes. You seem to have everyone else convinced that you have returned to normal, but your acting isn’t so good that it can fool me.”

“Is that so?” The suspicion melts into curiosity. “You were watching me so intently that you think you have picked up on my charade? Well, I can assure you that I am perfectly—!”

Hubert raises a brow at Ferdinand’s tear-streaked cheeks, his muddy knees, his scuffed palms from the rather violent discarding of his weapon.

Ferdinand deflates. “…Okay, fine. You got me.”

“Are you going to explain?”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re clearly incapable of handling whatever this is by yourself!”

“Oh, and I suppose _you_ would know _all_ about it.”

“If you would tell me, perhaps I would!”

Ferdinand glares. Anger almost looks good on him, almost covers up the dead gloss of his eyes. But not quite. “As disturbed as I am that you have followed me here, and that you claim to have been watching me close enough to pick up on something that quite literally no one else has noticed, I suppose must commend you for your powers of observation. That said, I have no desire to share my pain with you. I must handle this alone.”

“Ferdinand, please. Our next mission is only two weeks away, and if you’re still in turmoil by then—”

“Ah, so _that_ is what this is about. You are not worried about me; you are worried about my performance in battle. If I falter, your precious Edelgard may be in danger.”

“What? No!”

“I should have known better. Edelgard may not have sent you here, but you still came with only her in mind. Hubert, you are the most foolish, _airheaded_ man I have ever met!”

_“Airheaded?_ Are you sure you aren’t describing yourself?”

Ferdinand draws himself up like he intends to throw a punch. But then something seems to snap in him, some invisible thread that’s been holding him up despite his exhaustion, despite his pain, and he staggers. Hubert moves quickly to steady him, but Ferdinand pulls back with a snarl.

“Stay away from me,” is the biting command. “Do _not_ pretend to care. Do not give me hope.”

“Ferdinand…”

The man wrenches his javelin from the side of the tree and, using it as a prop, shoves past Hubert and begins making his way back to his room. 

Hubert makes no attempt to follow. He is— _confused_. Ferdinand hasn’t been this cruel to him in a long time, though Hubert will admit that he also bears fault for rising to his sudden and renewed challenge. But now…something has happened. Something awful. 

And Hubert is no longer certain that that _something_ really has to do with the Red Canyon.

* * *

The next two weeks pass slowly, sluggishly, and nothing changes.

Hubert returns to his duties at Edelgard’s side and devotes himself wholeheartedly to their next mission. They are to guard the mausoleum from invasion, and in order to do so they will need everyone in top shape. Such a matter requires his whole attention. 

Unfortunately, the matter does not _get_ his whole attention. Because Ferdinand is still spiraling, and he’s still the only one that can tell. 

He growing less and less certain that Ferdinand’s condition is being caused by an aversion to killing Kostas and his goons at the Red Canyon. He isn’t quite sure what else could be causing it, but it seems far too drastic to be only the result of something like _that_. It’s maddening, seeing the man in pain and being unable to help. He isn’t sure when it started—this desire, this itch to preserve Ferdinand’s life that distracts him even from his duties to Edelgard. But the itch is there now, has taken up residence beneath his skin, and he can do nothing to ease it. If Ferdinand would cooperate and tell him what’s wrong, then perhaps. But he still refuses to speak to him.

As the final week before their mission draws to a close, the situation only gets worse. Ferdinand grows quiet again, and slight dark spots appear beneath his eyes. His clothing is still perfectly pressed, but his cuffs grow marginally ragged out of the force with which he pulls at them. His hair is perfectly styled, except for a few strands that begin to stick out of place each day. The ones he plucks at, stricken with anxiety.

Hubert tries just one last time to convince Ferdinand to speak. He even tries to apologize for his behavior, explaining that he is truly concerned for his wellbeing. But the man just scoffs and refuses to speak.

And then, just like that, the day of the mission arrives.

“Professor Byleth is going to watch the entrance of the mausoleum for reinforcements,” Edelgard says once they’re all gathered for the pre-mission briefing. “The rest of us will go inside and deal with whatever we find there. Be on your guard. We have no idea what the enemy is planning.”

“I hope we don’t run into anything too unsavory,” Dorothea hums. “It would be a shame to sully such a beautiful festival with a vicious battle!”

“We may have no other choice.” Edelgard sets a hand on the hilt of her axe, hanging readily at her hip. “Attack without mercy, and make sure our enemies have no opening through which to strike. Now, let us depart!”

Hubert can stay silent no longer. 

“Lady Edelgard, if I may interrupt…”

Edelgard stops, taken aback. “Hubert?”

Hubert is well aware that what he’s about to do will undermine Ferdinand’s pride, and very possibly ruin any sense of comradery that may still linger between them. But if it saves Ferdinand’s life, he is more than willing to ruin what remains of their friendship.

“Lady Edelgard, I must request that you command Ferdinand to stay out of this battle.”

There’s a beat of silence, of shock, before everyone reacts all at once.

“How _dare_ you?” Ferdinand snaps. “Hubert—!”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Dorothea exclaims, echoed by Petra a moment later. 

“You’ll be putting our only cavalier out of action!” is Caspar’s irritated bark, as Linhardt keeps a restraining hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, man!” 

Edelgard merely hums, surprised. “Do you have a reason for making such a strange request?”

Hubert tries to reign in his irritation. He has to be convincing. “I have reason to believe that Ferdinand is unfit for battle at the present moment. Through my own observation, I have deemed him unstable. If you command him to fight now, I wouldn’t be surprised if grievous injury is the result—for him, or for anyone unfortunate enough to trust him with their back. That is why I must ask that you allow him to rest and recover before fighting.”

“Nonsense!” Ferdinand cries out, enraged. “I may have my problems to work through, but that does not mean I am not fit for battle! Edelgard, I implore you to cast Hubert’s needless suspicions aside. I swear to serve our House more loyally and skillfully than ever!”

But Hubert can see it. He can see the slight shake to Ferdinand’s hands, the frantic, almost wild look in his eyes. He can _see_ it.

Edelgard can’t.

She gives a slow nod, and Hubert knows that he’s lost. “I admire your intentions, Hubert, but we can’t afford to set aside our only cavalier. We rely upon his mobility. If he wishes to fight, then I won’t stop him.”

“And I _do_ wish to fight,” Ferdinand insists. 

Hubert shakes his head, desperate. “Lady Edelgard, _please_ trust me. Ferdinand will—” He bites his tongue, realizing that his next words had almost been, _Ferdinand will die._ But no, he won’t die, he _wouldn’t_ die. If Edelgard intends to send Ferdinand into this battle, and Ferdinand is foolish enough to fight, Hubert will just have to be there to protect the fool. “He may be injured,” is what he says instead, though he knows there’s no use in arguing just based on the pitying expression on Edelgard’s face.

Edelgard steps close. “I know you worry for him,” she says, quietly, so the others can’t hear. “But we have to put our faith in him right now. Trust that he can take care of himself.”

“I _do_ trust that he can take care of himself, normally. But right now…”

She shakes her head and insists, “We can’t do anything about it now. We have a mission to complete, and I’m relying on the both of you to have your heads on straight so we can complete it. Is that clear?”

Hubert allows his shoulders to slump. Nothing he can say will change her mind. “I understand, Lady Edelgard. Please, lead us well.”

She gives a sharp nod. Then she looks to the others and gives the command to move out, and they begin to make their way into the mausoleum. 

The battle hits swift and unforgiving.

Hubert is consumed by it, firing spells left and right as more and more enemy troops swarm from all sides. The Death Knight’s laugh is haunting, emanating from his place in the center of the battlefield. No one has been able to get close to him, caught up in trying to deal with the numerous troops that surround him. There are far more of them than they had imagined, and Hubert thanks whatever good fortune they have left that Byleth is doing a good job of holding off reinforcements from outside the tomb. Without her, they would surely be overwhelmed.

A well-placed fire spell knocks an enemy soldier to the ground at his feet, a smoldering crater where his head used to be. He snarls, stepping over the body to pick off another one that is swiftly approaching Petra’s undefended back. She calls her thanks as the man falls, then turns her attention back on the two troops she’s fending off with her blade. 

Blood sprays. Dorothea is yelling, hands glowing, back to back with Bernadetta as they work to keep the soldiers from surrounding them. Caspar is leaning against a pillar, gasping, as Linhardt does his best to both heal him and hold off their enemies at the same time. Edelgard is standing in the midst of it all, tall and proud, and cutting a path through the men that dare to approach her. Even Ferdinand is fighting well, if somewhat stiffly, taking up position at Hubert’s side. His eyes are still so very cold, but there is no hesitation to his movements. Yet another point against the _battle trauma_ theory, Hubert thinks distantly.

There are so many of them. So many enemies. But they have no choice but to prevail, and so Hubert doesn’t allow himself to stop firing for even a single moment. He provides cover for his classmates as they slowly, painfully, begin to cut their way inward. All they need to do is slaughter the enemy commander, and they can bring this horrid, sloppy battle to an end. As long as no one gets too close to the Death Knight, they—

“What’s this? Another little fly, ready for me to swat?”

Hubert’s blood runs cold. That same feeling from before is in the air, that same awful, electric tingle that starts up in his spine and shoves oppressively at the inside of his skin. Ferdinand. Where is Ferdinand?

He searches wildly. Ferdinand had been right beside him mere moments ago, cutting down anyone that got too close. But now his familiar head of copper hair is nowhere in sight, lost to the fray, and Hubert experiences a moment of pure, blinding panic.

“I told you I had no desire to kill anyone today, boy. Turn back now and I will let you live.”

Surely. _Surely_ he wouldn’t be so stupid as to…

The Death Knight leaves his pedestal, scythe raised, and Hubert knows.

He runs.

Edelgard catches his arm as he tries to get past her and plunge into enemy ranks. Her grip is vice-like, cold as steel, and she wrenches him back just as an arrow plinks off the ground at his feet. “Hubert!” she snaps. “What on earth are you—?”

He doesn’t answer. Every moment is another one that Ferdinand could be hurt, could be dying, and he has to get there _now._ He yanks his arm away and throws himself into the mass of enemy troops.

Power builds beneath his skin, and he releases it in a wave as he moves. Enemy soldiers fly left and right, blood spraying the air as he uses every ounce of power he possesses to cut through to where the Death Knight is fighting. He pays no mind to his own injuries, which blossom every time he’s not quite fast enough to dodge an arrow or a blast of magic from an enemy combatant. He knows he won’t die. But Ferdinand…

Finally, he cuts through the chaos and emerges into the clearing the Death Knight has claimed as his own. 

It’s just as he feared. Ferdinand, eyes wild with some horrid mixture of pain and terror and fury, is clutching at the blood-slick handle of his lance with one hand, the reigns of his horse with the other, and staring down the Death Knight without compromise. 

Hubert wants to scream. He wants to yell, wants to question just what Ferdinand thinks he’s _doing_ there, facing his own death without any inclination to retreat. He wants to tell him _enough, there’s no need for you to throw your life away!_ But he doesn’t get to say anything before Ferdinand rears up and charges, his horse leaping over bodies without pause in its single-minded focus to get its master to his destination. 

Hubert holds his breath. He can’t fire while Ferdinand is that close, which means the Death Knight could easily strike him down while Hubert can do nothing but watch. But thanks to some incredible form of luck, Ferdinand manages to mostly dodge the Death Knight’s scythe. The blow scrapes off of his armor, leaving behind deep furrows in the steel, but no blood follows. Ferdinand yanks his steed away from the wreckage and somehow, mercifully, manages to get back to a safe distance.

Hubert’s vocal cords finally unfreeze. “Ferdinand, retreat!” he yells.

Ferdinand barely even looks at him. He just scoffs, “On whose authority, _yours?_ I do not take commands from the likes of you.”

“On Lady Edelgard’s authority—I am _ordering_ you to draw back _, now!”_

And still, he refuses to look. It had been the wrong thing to say. “So you are here on her command yet again. I wish I could say I was surprised.” Ferdinand’s horse scuffs its feet in the bloody earth, and he snaps, “Leave, now! I will handle this.”

“Ferdinand, I—I’m sorry I insinuated that you were weak, that you didn’t have the heart to face this battle. You _are_ strong, and you don’t have to prove it by throwing your life away on the Death Knight! _Please_ , retreat!”

And Ferdinand, bless his sweet, pure soul, actually falters for a moment. He looks down at Hubert, hesitant, and acts for that single moment that he wants to reach out and take his hand.

But he is still Ferdinand von Aegir, and as always, he has something to prove. To himself, to Edelgard, to Hubert—to the world.

Ferdinand digs his heels into the flanks of his steed and does the single most ridiculous thing Hubert has ever seen him do. Lance raised, he aims for the Death Knight.

Hubert has the brief thought that the Death Knight is a valuable tool to Lady Edelgard, and that she will be very disappointed if something happens to him. But Hubert doesn’t care. Valuable or no, Ferdinand is going to die if he doesn’t do something. He isn’t quite sure when Ferdinand’s life became important enough to risk the destruction of such a valuable pawn as the Death Knight, but he isn’t going to question it now, as that pawn raises his scythe at Ferdinand’s approach.

Hubert extends a hand and fires at full power.

The Death Knight’s scythe is knocked away momentarily, just long enough for Ferdinand to get his lance under his guard and deliver a sharp, glancing blow to the side. He retreats as the Death Knight flails, narrowly missing a slice to the leg, and whirls to face Hubert.

“I can handle this! Go away!”

“You’ll die!”

Ferdinand bares his teeth, and his mask finally cracks down the center. And the beast beneath…

Hubert takes a step back. Ferdinand is… _broken._ His expression is twisted into a horrible amalgamation of hate and pain, contorting his beautiful face into something remarkably ugly. The sheer amount of hatred, the sheer amount of _agony_ in that expression is almost enough to tear Hubert in two. What has happened to him, to make him look such a way?

“I do not need your help,” Ferdinand bites out. “Now _stand back!”_

Ferdinand sweeps past him again, and this time he meets the Death Knight head on. He hefts his lance, but the Death Knight’s scythe catches it and directs it away, allowing him to reach out with his free hand and grip Ferdinand’s wrist. He yanks, and Ferdinand is nearly pulled clean off his horse before he manages to break free and draw back yet again. 

Hubert circles, raises his hands, and begins to fire. Ferdinand’s wishes be damned, he isn’t going to let him die. He catches the Death Knight just as he regains his balance, giving Ferdinand the chance to start in on another attack.

“Stop— _helping!”_ Ferdinand gasps, when he registers the presence of Hubert’s magic caught up in between his lance and the body of the Death Knight. “I need to do this alone!”

“I’m not going to let you die!” is Hubert’s furious response. “ _Curse_ you, von Aegir—I’ll save your life, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming to safety!”

“Oh, yes—I have to live, so I can protect your precious Lady Edlegard! If I were to tell you that I was going to go back to House Aegir’s land after this, that I was not going to be able to stay and protect her, _then_ you would let me die.”

Hubert can hardly believe his ears. “Not only is that entirely untrue, but now is _not_ the time for—!”

Ferdinand isn’t listening. The suicidal idiot attacks again, movements sloppy, form loose, and Hubert nearly has a heart attack as the Death Knight lands a hit on the man’s shoulder. Ferdinand unbalances, slides half off the saddle, and the Death Knight takes advantage of the situation to sever the horse’s reigns with one swipe of his blade. Ferdinand goes down hard and doesn’t get up.

The Death Knight lets out a satisfied rumble, dismounting his own horse and moving to his felled opponent. Ferdinand is gasping, the wind knocked out of him by the fall, and not even his most frantic struggles can stop the Knight’s advance. The Knight sweeps his scythe skyward, ready to attack, when—

_“Stop!”_

The Death Knight pauses at Hubert’s command. “Why? Anyone that stands in my way will be destroyed.”

“I’m giving you an order—in the name of the Flame Emperor, do not take his life!”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

Hubert cringes, the echo of Ferdinand’s recent words making his chest tighten. If only Ferdinand had listened to him then…

The Death Knight raises his scythe, and Hubert acts. He raises both hands, summons the most powerful spell in his arsenal, and levels it right at the man’s head. 

“Don’t kill him,” Hubert commands again, but his voice is shaking. “If you raise your weapon to him, I will—I will kill you.”

“And upset your master?” The Knight actually pauses at that, turning fully to face Hubert. “She wouldn’t be pleased if you killed me. I am…valuable to her.”

“I don’t care. Strike that man, and you die.”

Even from behind the mask, Hubert can sense the Death Knight’s self-assured smirk. “You’re bluffing.”

“Would you like to find out?”

The Knight hesitates, considering Hubert’s extended hands. Clearly he isn’t entirely convinced one way or the other, but he must know that Hubert’s power will put him down in one hit—or at the very least, injure him beyond repair—if he refuses to comply. Evidently he isn’t willing to take that risk, because finally, painstakingly, he lowers his scythe.

“You should control your pet, if you want him to live,” the Death Knight rumbles. “I will not be so merciful next time.”

Hubert doesn’t lower his guard. “Go, now.”

The Death Knight steps back and grips the reigns of his horse. And that _should_ be it. Everything _should_ be okay. Hubert has negotiated for Ferdinand’s life, and he has succeeded. The Death Knight will leave, and he can finally, _finally_ shake some sense into that impossible man. 

But that’s not what happens.

What happens is that Ferdinand is incredibly, irrefutably idiotic—and whatever has gotten under his skin lately, it has turned him into a suicidal fool.

As the Death Knight turns his back, Ferdinand finally manages to struggle to his feet, seize his lance, and strike.

The Death Knight roars in pain as the lance pierces his armor and buries deep in his right shoulder, blood fountaining from the wound when Ferdinand yanks it back. There’s this exhausted, bloody, _vicious_ expression of self-satisfaction on the man’s face when he staggers away, lance prepared for the Knight’s response.

Hubert barely manages to extend a hand, spell at his fingertips, before it happens. The Death Knight whirls, scythe in his injured hand, and swings brutally at Ferdinand. The man is ready for it, extends his lance to catch the blow—but the Death Knight is through playing games. He catches the lance in the curve of his scythe, flings the weapon to one side, and strikes at Ferdinand’s exposed chest. A horrible, tearing wound opens up there, ripping from left shoulder to right hip, and Ferdinand’s face goes pale and sickly as blood spouts from the ravaged skin. 

The Death Knight, ever a man of his word, does not move to finish the job. Instead he laughs, low and grating, and swings himself back atop his mount. “I’ve left him alive,” is all he says, as Hubert recoils in shock. “The rest is his own fault.”

The Death Knight Vanishes. 

_“Ferdinand!”_

Hubert scrambles to the man’s side, stricken, hovering a hand over the grievous wound. Oh, goddess—it’s bad, it’s _so_ bad, it’s opened up a path all the way across his torso, and it’s _deep_. The blood won’t stop. Hubert doesn’t know any healing spells. In all his years, how has he never learned _one_ healing spell?

He looks up frantically, searching for Linhardt. But the wound is so terribly deep, and Ferdinand has already lost an alarming amount of blood—will Linhardt be enough? 

A cold, clammy hand settles on his own, unintentionally squishing his palm down onto the bloody steel of Ferdinand’s torn armor. He jumps, startled, and looks down to find Ferdinand somehow still conscious, and looking right at him. 

Ferdinand laughs, hysterical, and lets his head fall back against the ground. “Oh, goddess,” he gasps. “I am actually going to die. _Curse_ him…”

Hubert doesn’t know what to think. The man is _laughing_ at his own possible death. “Be quiet,” he begs. “Just—be quiet. Don’t waste your strength.”

Ferdinand doesn’t even seem to hear him. It’s not a good sign. 

The man sighs, holding Hubert’s arm with crushing strength, as if he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. “Guess it doesn’t matter,” is his grim comment, all of his grandiose, noble speech slurring down into something basic and nearly undecipherable. “Doesn’t…doesn’t…oh, I’m suddenly _so_ very dizzy…”

Hubert clutches at him, desperate. “No—Ferdinand, no! It _does_ matter, okay, I’m not going to let you die!”

“For Edelg—”

“No, for _me!_ _Damn_ you, Ferdinand, Edelgard isn’t everything!”

Ferdinand looks at him in shock. Hubert is somewhat shocked himself, if he’s being perfectly honest, but he doesn’t take it back. The man raises his bloodied, shaking hand, and Hubert clutches it with both of his own.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand murmurs, wondrously. 

“Don’t. You can tell me later, okay?”

Ferdinand laughs again, frantically. “Not…not gonna _be_ a later…”

“There _will_ be a later,” he insists, raising his head to call for Linhardt again. “Flames, Ferdinand, what were you thinking? He was going to _leave_ , you didn’t have to strike at him again!”

Ferdinand huffs. His eyes are beginning to grow even hazier than before, distracted, distant, and Hubert clutches desperately to keep him grounded in the living world. “Thought…I was gonna prove…”

“Prove what?” Hubert snaps, furious and miserable and aching all over. “What could you possibly have to prove that would entice you to give your life to your opponent so willingly?” Then, when Ferdinand practically goes cross-eyed trying to answer, “No, stop, don’t answer that.”

The man titters like he’s just heard the most amusing joke. “Wait, wait…Hubie, I just…I just remembered, I was s’pposed to…”

He’s slurring. Hubert grips him even tighter, as if it will delay the inevitable. “Ferd—”

Ferdinand swats at him with a weak hand. “Was…was s’pposed to tell you that I…that I really…” He breaks off to paint his lips red with a cough. Something shifts, and his eyes go soft and distant. He whispers something under his breath. Then, louder, “No— _no!_ There’s…there’s no point now…he can’t make me…can’t… _make me…”_

Ferdinand’s head lolls on his shoulders, and Hubert’s stomach plunges. He shakes the man, calls his name, tries to get him to come back—but there’s no use. 

Hubert lurches to his feet, taken by fury and heartache. Where is Linhardt? _Where is he?_

There’s no time. Hubert knows how dangerous it is, but he uses every last scrap of his strength to haul Ferdinand into his arms and shove him up onto his frightened steed. Hubert slides up behind him, keeping Ferdinand’s limp form propped against his chest, and does his best to guide the beast across the field with the broken reigns. 

He spots Linhardt, a flash of sleepy green in the crowd, and barrels toward him.

“ _Linhardt_ , you deaf fool, _help me!”_

Linhardt looks up in surprise as Hubert very nearly runs him over with his horse. But that surprise turns to shock and revulsion in a moment’s time, and he doesn’t waste a second in commanding, “Get him on the ground.”

Hubert thanks fate that the enemy troops are finally dwindling, most of them retreating after the Death Knight’s disappearance. On the other side of the battlefield Edelgard calls out in triumph, no doubt having slaughtered the enemy commander, and then the battle is truly won.

_Won for everyone except Ferdinand,_ Hubert thinks bitterly.

Linhardt is more focused than Hubert has ever seen him. He barks over one shoulder, “Caspar, get the professor! Dorothea, find Manuela! Hubert, help me get this armor off of him!”

Hubert fumbles for the latches in Ferdinand’s armor, wrenching the breastplate open so Linhardt can get at the wound. The healer sucks in a sharp breath when he sees it, no doubt less than pleased about seeing this much blood this close, but he doesn’t hesitate.

“This is bad,” Linhardt mutters as he begins to pump faith magic into Ferdinand’s body. “He’s barely breathing. I—I think I can sustain him for a while, but I need Manuela.”

“You can’t let him die!” Hubert snaps, overcome with fear. “That _fool_ …I warned him not to go into this fight, and now—!”

“Hubert.” That’s from Edelgard. She’s returned from the other side of the tomb, slightly bloody but otherwise unharmed. Her expression is grim as she takes in the scene, but still she springs into action like a true leader. “Just in case Manuela isn’t enough, I want you to track down Marianne and Mercedes. The more healers we have on hand, the better.”

Hubert wants to protest, but he can’t. Ferdinand’s life is hanging in the balance, and as much as he wants to stay by his side, saving him is far more important. He gets up, shaky though he is, and goes to find the other healers.

“I’ll take Hubert’s place,” Edelgard says, kneeling beside Ferdinand. Her hands reach for one of his, and she holds so tightly that her knuckles turn white. She’s trembling ever so slightly, and it’s the only sign she gives that she’s just as rattled by the situation. “Linhardt, please tell me what to do. We _will_ save him.”

Linhardt begins to give orders, but Hubert doesn’t hear them. He leaves, hoping that the blood will be hidden by his dark clothing, and seeks out Mercedes and Marianne. 

The two are frightened to see him, seeing as the dark color of his cloak can’t exactly do anything to help the blood on his face and white gloves, but they go along easily enough once they understand that something is wrong. Hubert delivers them to the tomb and moves to go back inside, when—

“No,” Byleth says, raising a hand to stop him. “Remain here.”

“Excuse me?” Hubert all but growls, drawing himself up as if to move her bodily out of the way. “You will not keep me from him.”

Byleth just arches a delicate brow and says, “I was unaware you cared so much. The last time I spoke with Ferdinand on the topic, he seemed convinced that you were entirely uninterested in him.”

“I…suppose…”

She raises her chin and glares. It shouldn’t be intimidating, seeing as Hubert is about one foot taller than her, but she makes it look absolutely terrifying. “Listen well, Hubert. I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, nor do I care to know, but you’d do well to make sure that your feelings don’t bring harm to your classmates or to yourself. Right now, your friends are doing everything in their power to keep Ferdinand with us. If you go in, you’ll only distract them. So please—I ask you to do what you already seem so good at, and keep your feelings under wraps until they’re done.”

She’s…entirely correct. Hubert sighs, forcing the tension out of his shoulders. By the goddess, what has happened to him? He used to be so good at controlling his feelings, his temper…what is it about Ferdinand that makes him so very careless? Rushing across the battlefield into enemy lines, riding atop a horse with slashed reigns, sprinting through monastery grounds covered in blood…he has truly lost his edge. 

Hubert buries his head in his hands. “I am lost,” he mutters to no one in particular, and Byleth hears. 

She huffs in amusement, reaching out to clasp a hand to his shoulder. “No,” she says. “I think you are but a few steps away from being found.”

“What is that supposed to—?”

Edelgard emerges from the tomb and he falls immediately silent. Hubert thinks his heart might be about to leap out of his chest until Edelgard offers them a weary smile and says, “They’ve managed to stop the bleeding. For now, he’s safe. Clear the way, we’re moving him to the infirmary. No visitors. Hubert…you might want to look away.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. _Do not let your emotions cloud your judgment. You will only be heartbroken to see him in such a state. Please, look away._

He doesn’t look away.

Ferdinand looks so very small in the absence of his armor and his cloak, when the healers bring him up from the depths. They’ve got him on something of a stretcher, probably taken from Manuela’s office, and something about the material makes it painfully obvious just how pale he is. 

Hubert covers his mouth to keep from saying something foolish. He isn’t sure what that something would be, but he knows he doesn’t want to say it in front of everyone. 

He turns away before he can get a better look. Edelgard was right; he shouldn’t have looked in the first place. Now he just feels sick.

“We’ll inform you first thing if his condition changes,” Manuela tells Edelgard, her usual fire gone. “Don’t worry, we…we’re going to do everything we can.”

Edelgard bows her head. “You have our thanks.”

The healers vanish, Ferdinand with them, and Hubert still just feels _lost_. Something is wrong inside of him; he can feel a great and unknowable thing shifting where there shouldn’t be _anything._ He clutches at his chest, confused, but the feeling doesn’t go away. 

Edelgard’s expression softens when she looks at him. “Hubert,” she says, approaching to take him by the arm. “Please, walk with me for a moment.”

He forces himself to swallow down his pain, his heartache, his confusion. He forces himself to offer Lady Edelgard his usual slight smile. He forces himself to say, “Of course.”

They walk.

* * *

“Hubert, I’m so very sorry.”

Hubert stops. Edelgard has led him down and around the monastery, taking them out into the forest where they won’t be disturbed. She’s made sure that Manuela knows where they are so she can send a messenger if something goes wrong, and it’s just enough to ease Hubert’s fears and coax him into leaving the infirmary after having his wounds treated. 

“Hubert,” Edelgard repeats. “Did you hear me?”

He shakes his head, forcing himself to look Edelgard in the eye. “Ah—yes, Lady Edelgard. But may I inquire as to why you are apologizing?”

She looks at him like he’s insane. “You’re joking, right? You asked me to remove Ferdinand from the battle, and I didn’t. If I’d just listened to you, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Lady Edelgard…”

“No, please, let me finish.” She wrings her hands. “You didn’t just ask me to remove him from the battle; you asked me to _trust_ you. That’s what I’m truly sorry about. Denying you a request isn’t something I feel the need to apologize for, as I’m sure you know I have my reasons for every decision I make. However, denying you my trust…that is what I am sorry for. I should have trusted you.”

Hubert wants to do what he always does and assure Edelgard that she hasn’t done anything wrong. But his heart is burning, _screaming_ that she has wronged Ferdinand just as much as she has wronged him. He takes a deep, steadying breath to stop himself from saying something awful. He knows that this isn’t just Edelgard’s fault. It’s Ferdinand’s, for one, but it’s also his fault, and Byleth’s fault, and _everyone’s_ fault. They all should have done more. 

“I will admit,” Edelgard says, “I thought that your judgment was being clouded by your feelings for Ferdinand. That’s why I chose not to trust you. I thought you were overreacting, seeing as no one else seemed concerned. I see now that I couldn’t have been more wrong. Your emotions did impact your judgment, but only in positive ways. They led you to pursue Ferdinand when he was acting strangely, and to realize just how unstable he was becoming. They led you to understand him in a way none of us ever have.” She smiles sadly. “If only I’d realized that sooner, I would have removed Ferdinand from the battle without question.”

_My feelings for Ferdinand?_ Hubert turns the phrase over in his head, contemplative. Ferdinand is an irritating, arrogant, headstrong noble, and he gets under Hubert’s skin like no one else. But he’s also sweet and optimistic and loving, and everything he does, he does with absolute commitment. Hubert admires that about him. Admires _him_ , even.

And—the way he feels when the two of them walked through the monastery at night, Ferdinand’s arm hooked through his own. The way he feels when they take tea together and Ferdinand watches him with bright enthusiasm, waving the hand not occupied by a teacup as he recounts some valiant tale of his childhood. The way he’d felt when Ferdinand had pulled away from him, had scorned his good will, had risen up against the Death Knight. The way he’d felt when that horrid scythe had carved a bloody path into his flesh, spraying his noble blood into the air. 

And well, when he puts it all together like that, it seems almost obvious.

Oh, sweet goddess. He _likes_ him. 

Edelgard takes on this sad, creeping smile as she no doubt reads the shock and realization on Hubert’s face. “Oh, Hubert,” she sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve _just now_ figured it out.”

“Sorry, you knew _sooner?”_

“Of course I did! Hubert, there were so many signs. The two of you gravitate to each other whenever you’re in the same room. Ferdinand smiles when he speaks of you, and you _always_ become a little gentler when you’re around him. He goes out of his way to buy you coffee whenever he goes to town, and I’ve seen you perusing tea shops when you think no one’s looking. In battle, the two of you are relentless together. Do you even know the extent to which he watches your back, and you watch his? I could go on, but…”

“Please, don’t,” Hubert begs. He leans a hand against the nearest tree, stricken. “I…I suppose I hadn’t quite realized…”

“I admit, I thought the two of you were already together. I was confused when the news of Ferdinand’s engagement didn’t seem to cause you any pain, but I figured you were just—”

Hubert’s head snaps up. “His _engagement?_ What are you going on about?”

She blinks. “Oh—oh dear, did you not already know? House Rochester arranged it with House Aegir just last month. It’s quite the buzz back home at the moment; House Rochester is no small establishment in the Empire. House Aegir stands to gain quite a bit of wealth and fame through the marriage, and House Rochester gains the potential of Ferdinand’s crest being passed into their bloodline. They are technically nobles, after all, but they have not had a child with a crest born into their family in two generations. This union serves to change that. I can’t believe Ferdinand didn’t tell you; the wedding is supposed to be only two months from now! Oh, _flames_ —if I’d known to mention it to you earlier, we might have avoided all of this!”

Hubert opens and closes his mouth like a fish, but no words come. Ferdinand—is to be _married?_ In _two months?_ He laughs like a madman, dropping his head into his hands. So, that’s what all this has been about. Ferdinand’s misery, his pain, his reluctance, his frantic babbling right before he fell unconscious. It was caused not by his reluctance to kill, but by his impending marriage. But can that really be the only reason he’s gone so quiet in the past month? His transformation was so drastic, and to think it all came about because of some silly arranged marriage…

Arranged marriage— _hah_. Hubert can already feel his upper lip curling over his teeth, his fingers buzzing with magic. Arranged marriages can be _un-_ arranged. 

But…if Ferdinand wants to go through with it…

If Ferdinand _survives_.

Edelgard squeezes his arm, and Hubert wonders when her hand had gotten there. “It will be okay,” she assures him, like she can hear the chaos inside his head. “Speak with Ferdinand before you make any assumptions. I’m sure there’s more to the story than what I’ve just presented you with. And, ah…please apologize to Ferdinand for me, as I have so disgracefully tipped his hand.”

“I will. If he awakens, that will be my first order of business.”

Edelgard winces. “He _will_ awaken. I’m sure of it.”

Hubert wishes he could share her certainty. 

* * *

Three days later Ferdinand has yet to awaken. His condition is improving, and when he visits, Manuela tells Hubert that he is very likely not going to die. And while Hubert is comforted, he knows that _very likely_ is not _certainly,_ and so he stays awake at night and paces outside the infirmary long after Manuela shoos him out.

Four days later, nothing. Five days later, nothing. Six, seven, eight, nothing.

Nine days later, it finally happens.

Hubert doesn’t get to be there when it happens, as classes have started again and he can’t get out of all of them. He’s in the middle of Hanneman’s advanced spellcasting seminar when Manuela slips into the room and beckons, and his mind goes blank.

He doesn’t even look at Hanneman as he gets up and leaves. He’ll deal with the consequences later; he has to deal with Ferdinand _now_.

“What is it?” he asks sharply, once he’s closed the classroom door behind him. “Is he—?”

“Awake,” Manuela confirms with a smile. “And doing quite well, too. The sleep has done him good.”

Hubert could collapse with relief then and there. It’s only through sheer willpower that he manages to ask, “Can I see him?” And, after Manuela gives her agreement, brush past her and begin to run.

He doesn’t give himself time to prepare. He doesn’t stand outside the infirmary door and agonize over what to say, doesn’t give it a single moment of thought. He doesn’t even care what Ferdinand will think when he sees the tired flush to his cheeks, the spark of elation in his eyes. Instead he stops at his room to grab a bag of tea leaves imported from Almyra (Ferdinand is sure to be thirsty, and tea will be far more pleasant than the tepid water Manuela stocks in the infirmary), and rushes right to the room where Ferdinand has been moved.

He steps into the infirmary, and he has to look twice just to make sure what he’s seeing is real. 

Ferdinand looks up at him, wide-eyed, sitting up against the pillows. His hair is a mess, and he’s wearing nothing but an old infirmary gown, but he looks…good. Like he’s had a brush with death, sure, but like he’s come out stronger on the other side. Some of that awful anger has faded from his eyes, and he looks brighter now than he has in a month.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand breathes, making no effort to hide his shock. “You came.”

Hubert’s boots click on the tile as he brings himself further into the room. He closes the door behind them and approaches, hardly daring to believe that Ferdinand has really, truly survived his horrible encounter with the Death Knight. But there he is, alive and well, and Hubert can’t help but smile.

Ferdinand blinks twice. “Wait—is that a smile? Oh no, did you break while I was unconscious?”

Hubert chases the smile off his face with some effort and says, “You made me endure an entire nine days without your needling. There was so much peace and quiet; I actually managed to get things _done._ ”

Ferdinand raises a brow and waits. And Hubert, relieved as he is, doesn’t last a moment against that silence. 

“…Please don’t make me do it again.”

The silence turns into laughter, rasping and weak, as Ferdinand registers what he’s just said. “I am in no hurry to face down the Death Knight again,” he says, which is approaching dangerous territory, but Hubert doesn’t press. He’ll give Ferdinand a few moments at least, to acclimate to the waking world.

“Are you feeling well?” Hubert asks instead. He sinks down into the familiar chair at Ferdinand’s bedside. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you awoke. I wanted to tell you how much of an idiot you were before anyone else got to you, but alas—it seems Manuela has beat me to it.”

“Yes, she did give me quite a lashing.” Ferdinand smiles crookedly. He too steers away from the elephant in the room, though, simply answering, “I feel well. Somewhat achy and stiff, but Manuela says that the last of the pain will fade soon enough. I will be released from the infirmary tonight.”

“A relief to us all. Everyone has been quite worried about you.”

“Yes, I…I can imagine.” He looks down at the sheets, his smile falling away. “Hubert…”

The moment of respite passes. 

Hubert forces his tone steady, but he can’t keep the anger entirely out of his voice as he demands, “What in blazes were you thinking, rushing in like that? I can’t possibly describe to you how very close you came to death.”

Ferdinand says nothing. He twists his fingers in the sheets and closes his eyes.

“Do you have any idea what you put us through?” Hubert presses. “I thought I was going to watch you die, Ferdinand. When you fell unconscious and I was left there, struggling to get you to a healer with none in sight…” He shudders. “I truly thought you were lost.”

“I am sorry.”

Hubert looks up. Ferdinand’s voice is small, smaller than he’s ever heard it. The man’s hands are trembling where they’re snarled into the sheets.

“I am sorry,” he repeats, miserable. “Truly, I am. I have just…been dealing with a lot lately, and my negative emotions manifested themselves on the battlefield.”

“Not just on the battlefield. You’ve been fading for a month now. Pushing your friends away; pushing _me_ away. I tried so very desperately to reach you, but—”

“Edelgard told you to reach me,” is the sharp reply. “Do not pretend you would have come without her say-so.”

This again. Hubert narrows his eyes and leans in close, daring to cover one of Ferdinand’s hands with his own. “Ferdinand von Aegir,” he says, low, “I’m only going to say this once so pay attention. Edelgard had nothing to do with any of this. I came to you of my own volition, because I noticed you were feeling unwell. I told you she sent me as a cover because I was afraid to make a vulnerable gesture to a potentially vulnerable person, and I thought it would be easier for you to reconcile my intrusion as being that of necessity rather than that of personal interest. If I’d known that telling you one white lie was going to cause all of these problems, I never would have done it. I had only the best intentions. That being said…I, too, am sorry.”

As Hubert watches, some of the cold, lifeless pallor in Ferdinand’s eyes begins to lift. “You were interested?” he questions. “In—in me? You were truly concerned, and not just putting on a front for Edelgard?”

“Yes, Ferdinand. I was concerned.”

The trembling has stopped. Ferdinand watches him in wonderment, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I thought she was the only thing that mattered to you. I…I tried to get close to you, but I felt I was an afterthought.”

“You have my sincerest apologies for that,” Hubert says. “The truth is, I do care for you. That being said, I know I’ve made this situation far worse than it needed to be by trying to pass off my attentions as being required by Lady Edelgard. If I’d been honest with you from the beginning, perhaps you wouldn’t have degraded so quickly, or so severely.”

It’s an opening for Ferdinand to explain himself. The man knows it, and he immediately begins to shuffle uncomfortably. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, but Hubert doesn’t intend to give him a choice.

“Ferdinand,” he says gently, “there’s no need to hide it. Edelgard has already told me about your father’s decision.”

His head snaps up in alarm. “She did? But—it was not supposed to be a final decision; I thought I would get the chance to prove myself!”

_Prove himself?_ Hubert frowns. “Wait a moment. What exactly are you talking about?”

“You said you already knew.” Ferdinand hangs his head. All of that heartbreaking dejection and pain from the past month writes itself back into the curve of his spine, and yet again Hubert realizes that he may have misread the situation. Sure enough, Ferdinand’s next words are soft, miserable, and not at all what he expects.

“My father has threatened to remove me from House Aegir.”

Hubert stares in blank shock as he tries to imagine Ferdinand von Aegir, a man who takes tremendous pride in his nobility and his father’s place in the Empire, losing it all. And for _what?_ Why would his father make such an absurd threat?

“…Ferdinand,” Hubert says finally, “that’s ridiculous. Your father isn’t going to disown you.”

“Do not say that. You do not know what happened.”

“I don’t need to know what happened, because I understand that you are his only child, the bearer of a powerful crest, and emblematic of House Aegir’s future. You have everything required of a perfect heir, and it isn’t as if your father is about to produce another one anytime soon. Disowning you would be suicide for House Aegir.”

Ferdinand curls in on himself, and Hubert realizes very quickly that he’s continuing to handle things poorly even now. Ferdinand doesn’t need someone to explain the logistics of his father’s threats, he needs a shoulder to cry on. 

He sighs, forcing his logical side to take the backseat. “I’m sorry,” he says yet again. “Please, explain it to me.”

Ferdinand doesn’t seem inclined to obey. He rests the side of his face on his knees, staring off into nothing, and curls his fingers into his gown. The cold glaze to his eyes, having been momentarily chased away by Hubert’s visit, has returned full force.

Finally he speaks, and his tone is just as detached as the look in his eyes. “I am sure you remember my visit to my father several months ago. I am sure you also remember that he has tried to arrange for me to marry several times in the past, but that I have always managed to slip out of it before it gets too far. It was not that the women he chose were awful, I just…” He shrugs miserably. “I did not want to marry them.”

Hubert is indeed familiar. Ferdinand’s father has always been single-minded in that regard, driving his only son toward marriage with no true regard for compatibility or desire. It’s a small miracle that Ferdinand has been able to escape this long.

“Well, things escalated during that journey back home three months ago,” Ferdinand continues. “He presented me with another woman, I told him I did not want to marry her, and he kind of… _exploded_. He asked me why I kept refusing the proposals he continued to arrange. I tried all the usual tricks, like telling him that I was waiting to graduate, that I wanted to get to know the girl first, that I wanted to marry for love…all of it. But he wanted a more concrete answer.”

Hubert’s stomach sinks. He has a feeling he knows what Ferdinand had told his father, and why the threat of disownment had been issued.

“I told him I liked someone already, and that I wanted to pursue that person down whatever path our relationship took. Even if it was just friendship I…” He buries his face in his knees. “I did not think I could marry someone else and be happy. And as much as I want to bring honor to House Aegir, as much as I understand my responsibilities as a noble, I want to be happy, too.”

“He didn’t like that,” Hubert guesses softly. 

“No. He did not.”

Hubert is quiet for a moment, waiting for him to continue. Then, when nothing comes of it, “Was that why he threatened to disown you? Because you told him you wanted to marry for love?”

“…No.”

“Then why would he say such a thing?”

More fidgeting. Ferdinand’s hands are twitching, moving to pluck obsessively at his sleeves, and Hubert reaches out with a firm hand to stop him. 

“Please, stop. You’re safe here.”

The man stares silently at the place where Hubert is holding his hands. “I told him who I liked,” he says finally. “That is what did it. I did not mean to tell him, but he pressed and I could not bring myself to lie. He was furious. Angrier than I have ever seen him. He said, _I will not have you gallivanting around on the arm of someone as despicable as that man. Your duty to House Aegir is to marry and provide us an heir, and you cannot fulfill that duty as long as you continue to engage in such filthy behavior._ He said a lot worse, too, but I…I tried to forget.”

Anger fills Hubert’s entire body, humming beneath the skin, pressing at the backs of his eyes. “Your father is a contemptible creature for filling your head with such lies. No matter what person you choose, I’m certain they will be a far better match for you than anyone your pathetic father could come up with.”

Ferdinand gives him a searching look. “…Maybe you are right. In any case, I could not stop my father after that. He went ahead and accepted a proposal from House Rochester and set the date for the wedding. He said that if I did not go through with it, I could consider myself stripped of the Aegir name.”

“And so you have decided to go through with it.”

“What choice do I have? I may hate it, but my father is right when he says that I have a responsibility to House Aegir. I need to pass on my crest, provide an heir, take up my position as Prime Minister. I cannot do any of that without my title.”

Hubert allows himself a moment to curse the world they live in, that a man as bright and beautiful as Ferdinand has been saddled with such crushing responsibility. “If you explained the situation to Lady Edelgard, certainly she would allow you to succeed your father regardless of your position outside of House Aegir.”

“But I do not _want_ to be outside of House Aegir. I want to be able to keep my family name, to improve its standing and be as true an advisor to Edelgard as I can possibly be. I want to be better than my father.”

“Then you have already succeeded on one front, at least.”

Ferdinand smiles at that, small and sad. “It does not matter. The date is set; I am going through with it.”

“But surely your desire to serve your House is upset by your unhappiness. Please…if you don’t want to marry this woman, don’t marry her. Put yourself first for once!”

“I will not allow myself to fall. If my own happiness is something that must be sacrificed in order to maintain my House, I will gladly offer it up.”

“And—” Hubert’s mind whirls, approaching the situation from every angle, struggling to find a way out. “If you could maintain your position _and_ stop yourself from marrying the Rochester girl—would you then call off the wedding?”

Ferdinand nods. “Without hesitation. I told you, there is… _someone else_ that has caught my eye as of late.”

Hubert’s mouth is suddenly very dry, as he catches the almost bashful look Ferdinand shoots him from beneath his lashes. Edelgard was right—Ferdinand is drawn to him just as much as he is drawn to Ferdinand. The confirmation of his prior suspicions makes his stomach fill with tiny, fluttering wings. 

“Ferdinand, I—” He breaks off, swallowing the crack in his voice before it can get out. “If you felt that way, why in blazes did you push me away so violently? I was so very confused when you began to act in such a way; I thought we had moved past that stage of our friendship.”

Ferdinand looks away, flushing. “I apologize for that. I knew that I was to be married, you see, and I thought it would be improper to continue my relationship with you. It would hurt less if I got rid of you altogether, so that is what I attempted to do. I was…angry. Angry that I could not have you. Angry that my father was going to force me to wed a woman I could never love. That anger manifested itself whenever I spoke to you.”

“And…your sudden anger about my friendship with Lady Edelgard?”

“Sudden?” Ferdinand asks. He shakes his head in amusement. “Hubert, I have always been jealous of your friendship with her. I was reminded of that at an inopportune time, when I was already struggling with my engagement and my feelings for you, and that jealousy turned promptly to fury.”

Hubert just says, “But you never showed much concern about that before.”

“Yes, because I thought I would have all the time in the world to convince you to have me. But once I realized that I would be forced to marry, and that you were being hoisted out of my grasp…” His gaze dips. “I could not handle my rage. I thought you did not care for me, that you were only there on behalf of Lady Edelgard…or no, maybe I only _wanted_ to think that, so it would be easier to cast you aside. I suppose it does not matter either way.”

Hubert clasps at Ferdinand’s hand gently, as if it’s made of glass, because right now he feels that it _is_. “Horrendous timing, all of it,” he says, and his voice is shaking. “Ferdinand, I am so very sorry that this happened.”

“Do not apologize, Hubert,” is Ferdinand’s dull response. “I am the one that should apologize to you, for all the pain I have put you through. My pain, my grief, my anger…all of it was thrust upon you, when you were not at fault. It was a truly dire combination. My impending marriage, my desire to have you, my assumption that I could not, your claim that you were only helping me on Edelgard's behalf..."

Hubert bows his head, pressing his forehead to the backs of Ferdinand’s fingers. “And now you feel yourself driven to marry someone you do not love to appease the very man that has been the cause of much of your pain.”

“I have no other choice. Despite what I feel for, ah…the _other_ people in my life, I must do this to bring honor to the Aegir name.”

Fury bubbles hot and sour at the back of Hubert’s throat. He takes a deep breath to keep from exploding, and merely squeezes Ferdinand’s hand even tighter between his own. 

“I’ve heard enough,” Hubert says, dropping his voice to a near-whisper. “ _You_ may be willing to be miserable for the rest of your life in service to your House, but _I_ will never allow such a thing.”

“Pardon?” Ferdinand draws back with a bemused frown. 

Then and there, Hubert makes his choice.

“Consider your engagement null and void,” Hubert says. He isn’t sure exactly how he’s going to manage it, but he _will_ assure Ferdinand’s position within House Aegir, marriage or no. He’s sure a few well-placed knives—specifically at the throats of Ferdinand’s father and his attendants—will take care of the problem nicely, but he’s not sure he’s feeling very _nice_.

Ferdinand stares at him like he’s just plucked the moon from the sky. “Sorry, what?”

“Your engagement. It is being called off.”

“But my father will—!”

“He will do nothing but cower, by the time I am through with him.” Hubert rises, all of his anger manifesting itself in a manic path worn between the door and the bed. “ _Curse_ that man…”

“Hubert, please! I do not know what you are planning, but I want to keep my title! If I have to marry that woman to do so, then—”

“Fear not, Ferdinand. Your father will not force you to marry—and what’s more, he will _not_ disown you for refusing him. I swear it.”

“I fail to see how you could assure such a thing.”

“I am the right hand of the future ruler of our domain. Beyond that, I am a rather _unfortunate_ person to become involved with in my own right. I will have your father under my thumb by week’s end, and then you _and_ your title will be safe.”

Something dawning and hopeful is spreading across Ferdinand’s face as he finally seems to realize that Hubert isn’t joking. The expression is radiant, sweeping away some of the death that has crept its way into his eyes in the past month. “…Truly?” he dares to ask. “But—I could not possibly ask you to—”

“You aren’t asking. I’m commanding.”

“Ah, I think you are supposed to say that you are _offering.”_

“ _Offering_ is too weak a word for what I intend to do to that wretched man.”

Something like worry enters Ferdinand’s expression, and he says, “You are not planning to do anything too harmful, are you? As much as I dislike him, he is still my father.”

“This would be much easier if you’d let me dispose of him. But…if you wish for him to keep his life, I won’t protest. All that matters is that by the end of my _visit_ , your father will be powerless to do anything to harm you.”

He could be imagining it, but he thinks he detects the slightest hint of dampness gathering beneath Ferdinand’s eyes. “Hubert, he whispers, like a prayer. 

Hubert doesn’t let up. He presses, incredulous that Ferdinand had let things go this far purely out of his desire to avoid an arranged marriage and remain within House Aegir. “I could have helped you before things became this dire,” he says, his grip on Ferdinand’s hand tightening until it must be painful. “If you’d said something to me, I could have taken care of this a month ago. Why did you feel so strongly that you needed to do this alone? Surely any number of your friends would have been able to help you.”

Ferdinand lowers his gaze. “Because I thought that maybe if I just fought harder, proved that I was the best of the best, my father would see that I was no weaker for being unmarried and…attracted to the person I was attracted to, and call off the wedding. I thought if I stood against the Death Knight and won, he might understand that I am _strong_. That he did not _need_ to marry me off. That…that I was happy, and working hard, and bringing honor to the Aegir name, and there was therefore no need to find me a suitable wife.”

“So you took on the Death Knight and nearly died,” Hubert, says, that familiar anger hitting him a second time. But not for Ferdinand, oh no. This is anger for his dunce of a father. 

“…Yes. I did.” Ferdinand fidgets miserably. “But none of that matters now. I failed. I suppose this whole thing really was pointless.”

“Not entirely pointless,” Hubert assures him. “If you hadn’t been injured, I probably wouldn’t have learned that you were to be married until it was too late. Now that I know, I can help you.” 

“Which I…appreciate, truly,” Ferdinand manages. He speaks haltingly, like he isn’t sure how to put his feelings into words. “If you truly managed to stay my father’s hand, I would be forever in your debt. However…a part of me warns that if _you_ of all people have to step in to fix this, my father will only see it as confirmation that I am indeed the pathetic excuse for a son he believes me to be. I was meant to handle this alone, so that I could prove him wrong.”

“But you can’t.” Hubert knows he must tread carefully here. He doesn’t want to tell Ferdinand he’s weak, because he decidedly is not. But if someone doesn’t talk sense into him, he’s going to get himself killed. “Ferdinand…please, listen to me. I know you wish to prove your worth to that man, but _look_ at yourself. You very nearly died, and what good would that have done anyone? This past month you’ve been spiraling, and I fear what will happen if you don’t drop this silly belief that you have to handle this by yourself. Having my aid does _not_ mean that anything your father says is correct. It only means that you’re wise enough to recognize your own weaknesses, and strong enough to allow others to compensate for them.”

Ferdinand smiles crookedly. “Pretty words, but my father will not agree. I will try just one more time, perhaps, though I will have to be more careful about it.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Hubert, please! I am far too strong to allow myself to—!”

Hubert reaches up and, embracing a suspicion he’s had since finding that foil tube of concealer in Ferdinand’s room, swipes the white thumb of his glove beneath the man’s eye. 

His finger comes away the same color as Ferdinand’s skin. And beneath, bared by that singular swipe of Hubert’s thumb, is exactly what he had feared.

Ferdinand yelps, immediately moving to cover the dark, mottled, _consuming_ bags under his eyes. But he fails, because Hubert’s free hand moves to trap his wrists against the bed. The evidence of what this past month has done to Ferdinand is writ large in those awful dark spots, which seem to reach right down to his core. It looks as though he hasn’t slept in weeks.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert says, sharply. “You aren’t well. If you continue on like this, you _will_ lose your life. You may even take a few of our classmates with you, if your next lapse happens on the battlefield. You aren’t weak for recognizing such a thing and taking steps to prevent it. You seem convinced that if you stand tall and strike down all those in your path, your father will recognize just how courageous and good-hearted you truly are, and that he will allow you to choose your own destiny as a result. But please, consider the more likely option—that he doesn’t care. That he has made up his mind, and nothing you do now can change it. So please, _let me handle this_. If you want to prove to your father so badly that you aren’t weak, then be strong by living your life the way _you_ want to live it. Be happy just to spite him, if that’s what it takes!”

Ferdinand watches him for a moment, tense, like he’s trying to figure out how to counter. But then this exhausted _whoosh_ of breath leaves him, his posture loosens, and all the fight just… _drains_ right out of him.

Ferdinand slumps like he’s been shot. He leans back against the pillows, ginger hair falling in a spray of a halo around his pale face, and lies there like some kind of fallen angel. Even now he is beautiful, beaten and exhausted and hopelessly hopeful, and Hubert wonders how he could possibly have been so blind as to think he didn’t feel anything for this man.

“I surrender,” Ferdinand says in a breath, wispy and defeated. 

“You—what?”

“Surrender,” he repeats. “I entrust myself to you, Hubert. Please, protect me for as long as I cannot do it myself.”

Those words— _I entrust myself to you—_ are like a punch to the gut. It floors him momentarily, the sheer _trust_ Ferdinand is placing in him, and it takes a few breaths before he can say, “Then I will do everything in my power to do just that. From here on out, don’t fear to falter. I will catch you.”

Ferdinand looks at him, then, and something about his face—so very pale and bruised, but somehow warm and passionate and—if he allows himself to consider such a thing— _loving_ , makes Hubert’s stomach flip. 

“You should be careful telling me such things,” Ferdinand whispers, and _oh_ , when did the two of them get so very close? Hubert’s hand is on the bed, stretching across the man’s body to rest beside his opposite hip. It’s a mock embrace, almost, as Hubert leans closer as if drawn by a magnet. “If misstepping is sure to land me in your arms, I might be inclined to do it purposefully.” 

Hubert’s mouth is filled with cotton. He feels lost—he’s always been so good at keeping his emotions under wraps, speaking with conviction, voicing what he believes outright—he can’t believe how swiftly Ferdinand has stolen his sense from him. His tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth as he says, dumbly, “I brought you tea.”

It is absolutely the wrong thing to say in the face of such a loaded moment, and Ferdinand throws his head back and laughs with abandon. “Did you!” he exclaims. “Ah, Hubert—you are ever the charmer. It is no wonder I have grown so very fond of you.”

“Then I will consider my supposed _charm_ a boon, as I have also grown quite fond of you.”

Ferdinand smiles at him, twinkling, and looks full to bursting with some great and impossible joy. “Fantastic! We are in complete agreement for once…are we not?”

Hubert looks down to the place where Ferdinand has laid his hand, open palm facing skyward in an obvious yet subtle invitation, and wastes no time. He reaches out, mindful of the fleshy stain on the thumb of his otherwise pristine gloves, and slides his hand into Ferdinand’s with conviction. Voicing what he believes to be right, even without his voice.

Perhaps Ferdinand has less _stolen_ his sense, and more helped him come to it.

Ferdinand’s eyes shine. “Hubert, I—”

He presses the pointer finger of his free hand over the man’s lips. “No dramatic confessions until I’ve fulfilled my promise to you,” he insists, because he can sense where Ferdinand’s mind is headed and as much as he wants to exchange affectionate words of his own, he has a rather immediate task to attend to.

“A small confession, then,” Ferdinand pleads, leaning close. “I…I need to hear it. Just once, so I know you are serious.”

Fondness sparks in his chest, and he finds himself unable to resist. “Very well. Ferdinand von Aegir, I desire you in a way I have desired no one else, and, if you would allow it, it would be my honor to walk beside you upon my return.”

Ferdinand looks as if he might explode from happiness. “And I would like nothing more than to do the same. Oh, I can hardly believe it! So long wishing for your affections, and to know that they are finally returned…”

Hubert lifts a finger, though he can’t stop the warmth he feels at the sound of those words. “Hush, dear Ferdinand. Not until I return.”

“But—!”

“Please, allow me deal with your father first. If your marriage is set to occur in two months, I’ll need to move quickly to silence him and provide a decorous excuse to House Rochester. I’m sure you’d rather not offend them, after all. When I return, we will be together.”

“Hubert,” Ferdinand whines. But he doesn’t do much to really protest, as he surely understands that ending his engagement is their first priority. “Very well…I suppose it would be agony to kiss you once and have to wait the weeklong journey to and from Aegir to kiss you a second time.”

“When I return,” Hubert vows again, pressing a feather-light kiss to the back of Ferdinand’s pale hand. “Until then, please rest. When I arrive back from Aegir territory, I expect those painful bags beneath your eyes to have diminished.”

“Will you write to me?” Ferdinand asks imploringly. “To be apart for so long, when I have only just begun to have you…”

Amusement bubbles in his chest. “It will only be a week, perhaps two if weather is poor. Besides, the speed at which I will travel will likely leave me unable to put pen to parchment. Or would you rather slow my travel so that I can write to you? I will do such a thing upon request, but I can’t guarantee that I won’t require another few days of travel in order to accommodate—”

“No!” Ferdinand exclaims, rising to the bait without hesitation. “Fly fast, and come back even faster! I will wait.”

Hubert can’t hold back a smile as he concedes, “As you wish. I will depart now, as to return to you by this time next week.”

“Now? Will you at least stay for tea?”

“If you would be willing to wait one day more for my return, then…”

Ferdinand sighs wearily. “I understand. Come close so I can give you my farewell, then you can be on your way.”

It’s a silly trick, but Hubert falls for it. He stoops to Ferdinand’s level, having just risen to prepare for his departure, and is entirely caught off guard by the curl of fingers in his collar, dragging him down for a swift and biting kiss.

He barely has time to register it before he’s pushed away, Ferdinand’s self-satisfied smile following him up. “What happened to kissing me before my departure being agonizing?” Hubert asks dumbly, raising a pair of cool fingers to his tingling lips. 

“Well…” Ferdinand’s smile turns into more of a smirk. “I figured that if I gave you incentive, you would return that much faster. That is worth a little agony, right?”

“As if you weren’t incentive enough all on your own, you silly man.”

Ferdinand’s expression goes from cocky to bashful in a heartbeat. He waves an embarrassed hand and splutters, “Go, get out of here!”

“Wait, the tea leaves I brought—”

“Leave them with me. We will share a pot when you return.”

“Hmph, I would still prefer a cup of coffee.”

Ferdinand beams. “Then it will be waiting for you. Good luck with my father, and…thank you, Hubert. Truly.”

“No need for thanks. Now, I must depart. I will see you in one week’s time.”

Ferdinand’s grip on him tightens momentarily, as if he longs to draw Hubert back in and never let him go. But he eventually allows Hubert’s hand to slip from his, leaning back in defeat. “Be careful!” he calls, but Hubert is already gone.

Hubert runs into Manuela almost immediately as he leaves. The expression on his face must truly be a sight to behold, because she has to look twice to make sure it’s really him. “Hubert, are you—?”

“Inform Professor Byleth and Lady Edelgard that I will be taking a short leave of absence to deal with a personal matter. I am to leave immediately.”

Manuela calls after him as he leaves, trying to ask him what he means, but he doesn’t hesitate.

He has a pest to take care of.

* * *

Hubert does take care of that pest, and he does so with brutal efficiency and far more pleasure than he’s taken with any of his past victims.

Ferdinand’s father is a horrid man, so vicious and cruel that he wonders how such a creature could have produced someone as kind and loving as Ferdinand. He takes great joy in his visit to the Duke, showing up on his doorstep atop a pitch-black warhorse that he reserves purely for when he needs to make a quick and silent entrance. He doesn’t announce his presence, just slips into the castle and neatly makes his way to Duke Aegir’s office. He has it on good authority that the man will be there, drawn back from Enbarr to handle his son’s engagement. 

“Duke Aegir,” Hubert greets when he finally reaches the office, tucked away in some far corner of the estate. “Forgive my rather abrupt intrusion, but it has been brought to my attention that you’re laboring under false pretenses about your son’s future. Let us correct that, shall we?” And he watches, stomach churning with satisfaction, as the man sees him, realizes who he is, and goes pale as a sheet.

Evidently his reputation precedes him.

The two of them do indeed have a conversation, which involves a lot of yelling (none if Hubert’s) and even more screaming (again, none of it Hubert’s) and, eventually, a slew of black magic and barked threats about the continued agency of one Ferdinand von Aegir (all of them Hubert’s). The man is admirably persistent, howling about Ferdinand’s behavior being a knife in the side of the goddess and a disgrace to the Aegir name, but Hubert is even more persistent, and he has the force of Lady Edelgard behind him. He pins the man against the now-cracked wall of his study with a crushing hand around his throat, pours slow, torturous licks of magic into his skin until he’s screaming, and feels satisfied when he sees the blackened imprint of his fingers against the sickly skin. He pulverizes the bones in the man’s wrist, leering with grim satisfaction as he feels the crunch beneath his boot, and the resulting gasp is music to his ears. He snaps his fingers one by one, reveling in the defiant glare he gets in return. He does _worse_. Far, far worse. And finally, when Duke Aegir is reduced to a sobbing, panting mess, Hubert repeats his command. 

“You will inform House Rochester that the marriage is off. You will not attempt to make Ferdinand marry from here on out. You will stay away from him, and you will _certainly_ not attempt to shame him for his choices. I assure you, he is far more of a man than you could ever hope to be, and he outshines you in every conceivable manor. You are _nothing_ compared to him.”

The man spits, starts to say something venomous about his son, but Hubert is _done_. A spell cracks viciously into Duke Aegir’s head, no doubt sending a nasty buzz down his spine. The man opens and closes his mouth dumbly.

“Let me rephrase,” Hubert says. “You will call off the engagement and leave Ferdinand alone, or I will kill you.”

“You would never,” is the choking response. “The Emperor would have your head for slaughtering the Prime Minister!”

And just like when the Death Knight had made similar claims, Hubert is unafraid. He levels his palm with the man’s head and says simply, “If you would like to test me, I will gladly prove myself. I assure you that it would not take much to make this look like the work of a political extremist rather than that of a jilted lover to your dear son. I will go free, and you will die.”

Duke Aegir starts to respond, but doesn’t get so far as opening his mouth before Hubert hits him with just one last spell. A vicious _snap_ fills the air, the sound of his femur cracking in two, and that’s all it takes.

The matter is efficiently sorted out.

Hubert leaves the house with blood on his tunic and a gratified smile on his face. Ferdinand is, at last, safe.

Safe, and waiting for him.

He mounts his warhorse and takes to the road.

* * *

Hubert approaches monastery grounds exactly nine days after his departure. The irony of the number isn’t lost on him—it took Ferdinand nine days to return to him, and now it has taken him nine days to do the same. 

He’ll never know how Ferdinand knows, but he knows. He’s waiting in stables when Hubert rides in on his horse, a bright, watery smile on his face and a greeting on his lips. He pulls Hubert down off the beast before it’s even fully settled, yanking him into a crushing hug. A kiss follows shortly after, a brief, burning press of lips, and once again Hubert finds himself chasing that lovely feeling as Ferdinand pulls away all too soon.

“You have finally returned!” Ferdinand exclaims, kissing him again, then again. “By the goddess, Hubert, I thought you were only going to be gone a week!”

“Poor weather, as I feared,” is the breathless response. Hubert stops Ferdinand when he leans in to kiss him again, catching his pouting face between his gloved hands. “You should know—your father has been taken care of.”

His eyes light up. “Truly?”

“Truly. What’s more, he’s perfectly alive. A little maimed, to be sure, but it’s nothing he didn’t deserve.”

Ferdinand groans in exasperation, but the dopey smile never leaves his face. “And the engagement is off?”

“It is, as are all others he might have tried to arrange.”

The pure joy that radiates from Ferdinand is blinding. He bounces on his heels, his hair flipping about with every movement, and clasps Hubert’s hands between his own. “I can hardly believe it! To think, I spent an entire month trying to convince him otherwise, and it only took you a little over a week!”

“It barely took me an hour,” he corrects. “The journey doesn’t count.”

Ferdinand throws his head back and laughs, baring his throat, and Hubert realizes that much of his paleness has faded. He reaches out to cup Ferdinand’s jaw in one gentle hand, tilting his head so he can see him better. A quick swipe of his thumb confirms that all hints of concealer are gone, and those dreadful bags under his eyes have almost completely faded. His entire body seems to warm with the knowledge that Ferdinand is no longer suffering.

“They look good, do they not?” Ferdinand asks, guessing what he’s looking at. “I slept for two days straight after you left, and when I awoke most of the darkness had gone.”

“You feel better, then?”

“Much.” Ferdinand’s fingers trail up his wrist, sliding around his shoulders. “I dreamed of the day you returned.”

“Did you?” Hubert leans into his embrace. He hooks an arm around Ferdinand’s waist, reveling in the closeness. Despite having only shared his feelings with the man nine days ago, and having been separated from him for much of that time, he feels at home. Like he’s never known anything else. Like he never _wants_ to know anything else.

“I did,” is Ferdinand’s teasing response. He tugs Hubert right up against him, the fingers of his spare hand hooking into his overcoat. “You said no dramatic confessions until you returned, and now you have returned.”

“Is now the time, then?” he asks, amused. 

“Now is the time. This week has been torture, waiting for you. I have had nothing to do but plan for your return, seeing as Manuela would not let me go back to classes.”

“Plan, hmm? Did you come up with anything interesting?”

Ferdinand’s eyes grow hooded and intense, and Hubert’s heart stutters in his chest. He’d been _joking,_ he hadn’t actually thought—

Clever fingers unhook themselves from his overcoat and slide down, _down_ , gripping the sharp jut of his hipbones. Hubert practically jumps out of his skin at that touch, shocked at its boldness. _“Ferdinand,”_ he absolutely does _not_ squeak.

Ferdinand just laughs, wrapping himself around Hubert like a blanket. “Are you shy? It is okay if you are; I will not be disappointed. I just had _all_ that time to myself to think of your return…and I really should thank you properly for taking care of my father for me.”

Oh. _Oh_. 

Hubert’s mind turns to putty. 

“…Hubert?” Ferdinand draws back, brow furrowing with concern. “Was I too forward? Accept my apologies if I have unsettled you, that was not my intent.”

“Ah—no! No, I mean, you didn’t unsettle me.” He clears his throat. “I was just not expecting you to do— _that_.”

“Is it bad that I did?”

He bites at his lip. He hasn’t even gotten to court Ferdinand properly yet, hasn’t gotten to buy him gifts and hold his hand and woo him for all he’s worth. Someone as beautiful as Ferdinand _deserves_ those things. He doesn’t deserve something hasty, something that happens only out of eager desperation. But Ferdinand is watching him, hopeful and adoring, and Hubert wonders if he is the fool and Ferdinand is the one that has been trying to court _him,_ with his many gifts of coffee and their excursions into town and all of his honeyed words, assuring Hubert in between teasing insults that he is, will always be, _loved_.

All of Hubert’s doubt turns to dust.

“It’s not bad,” he says, and the tense line of Ferdinand’s shoulders releases. “It’s—good. I…want that. I want _you_.”

“Well that is good, because I was going to have to get _very_ acquainted with my right hand if you said no.”

_“Ferdinand,”_ Hubert rebukes, abashed. 

_“Hubert,”_ he teases in return.

Hubert can only shake his head in a mixture of amusement and disbelief as Ferdinand goes for his hand again, tugging him in the direction of the dorms. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he sighs. 

“I hope not. I was quite planning to keep you.” 

The words strike him right in his core, and Hubert follows dumbly as Ferdinand draws him forward. The two of them slip across monastery grounds, silent as a pair of shadows, and find their way into the dorms. 

Ferdinand’s room is cleaned and polished to a high gloss, and it is painfully obvious that the man has been anticipating this turn of events for the entirety of Hubert’s absence. The desktop is immaculate, cleared of all papers and dusted flawlessly. The floor has been swept, the rugs shaken out and straightened. The drapes are drawn over the window. The bed is perfectly made, the sheets pulled tight. There are candles flickering on the bookshelf, the desk, and the windowsill. There are two cups on the desk, and two steaming pots that have no doubt been enchanted with a fire spell to keep them warm. Hubert is half surprised that rose petals aren’t scattered about, completing the perfectly romantic picture that Ferdinand has gone to great lengths to paint.

“Is it too much?” Ferdinand muses, taking a good look at what he’s done. “I suppose I could have left out some of the candles, or—mph!”

He doesn’t get further than that, because Hubert delivers him a searing kiss that steals his breath away. 

“It is entirely too much,” Hubert says laughingly, “but it’s _you_ , so I could never have expected anything less.”

Ferdinand pouts at him, and Hubert is quick to kiss that pout away. He is full of something large and important and _warm_ for this man, something that makes him want to hold him close and never let him go. All of his feelings—the ones he’d repressed, the ones he’d shoved down, the ones he’d never allowed himself to feel, the ones he’d never _realized_ he felt—are swelling up inside of him now, pushing at the underside of his skin, and it’s altogether too much. 

Ferdinand latches the door, and the atmosphere in the room grows so thick that Hubert could probably rend it in two with a sword. He swallows hard.

“Ferdinand,” he tries. Then, when his voice hitches slightly, he tries again. “Ferdinand, I—I do not have it in me to be— _sweet_ , like you. My job is to keep my emotions under wraps, to never tip my hand to anyone that might use it against me or those I have sworn to protect. So please forgive me if I am unpracticed in matters such as these. It’s true that up until two weeks ago, I did not understand my feelings for you, much less yours for me.”

“ _Two weeks ago_ ,” Ferdinand chides, nosing at his jaw. “By the goddess, Hubert, how much clearer could I have made things? I bought you coffee. I took you to town to look at the new imports shop when it opened. We had a picnic in the forest, in spring, when everything was in full bloom. I picked the flowers in the meadow and stuck them in your hair. _And_ I made us sandwiches. What more could I have done?”

“Hit me upside the head, clearly,” Hubert mutters in disbelief. Now that Ferdinand says it like that, it _does_ sound extremely obvious. “I can only ask that you forgive me for my behavior. I have…treated you cruelly in my confusion.”

Ferdinand just shakes his head, a tiny smile blossoming across his lips. “You would not be you if you were not somewhat cruel, and besides, I am hardly blameless. If our verbal sparring was to stop now that you have realized the truth of the matter, I would be quite disappointed.”

“You _want_ me to insult you?” Hubert asks, amused.

“Mm, more like I do not want you to lose your willingness to call me out for doing foolish things. Of course, you can expect the same from me. I will not be shy about telling you when you are being, as usual, an idiot.” He reaches up and slides a gentle palm along Hubert’s cheek. “But that does not matter right now. Your fears, your worries—cast them aside for me. Be _here_.”

And when he says it like that, breathy and anticipatory, how can Hubert refuse?

Ferdinand sets his back against the latched door and encourages Hubert to crowd him back against it, caging him between deceptively powerful arms. This time when their lips meet it’s slower, searching, the kiss of new lovers coming to acquaint each other with their bodies for the first time. Ferdinand sighs into it, low and sweet, and allows Hubert to tilt his chin up with two fingers to deepen their embrace.

Ferdinand hums into him when Hubert raises his hands and, gingerly, sets them atop his chest. Encouraged, he slides one beneath the man’s overcoat, the only barrier between them a thin cotton undershirt that might as well not exist for all the cover it provides. It has a low collar, diving almost to mid-chest, and Hubert’s fingers skate the bare skin there. Ferdinand is a fighter—he always has been, always will be—and it shows in the wiry strength of his muscles, the firm build of his chest. His skin is hot and smooth to the touch, and Hubert slides his hands down in search of more. Edging, just barely thumbing beneath the hem of that undershirt. 

“Hubert,” Ferdinand sighs, tilting his head back against the door as searching fingers find their way up, up, _up_ , palming over his stomach, his chest, touching everywhere they can reach. “I have dreamed of this—dreamed of _you.”_

And there are so many things he wants to say to that— _I’ve dreamed of you too,_ or _you can’t possibly imagine how long I’ve waited for you,_ or _Ferdinand, you fool, stop talking and touch me—_ but the bare column of Ferdinand’s neck proves itself far too tempting, and he abandons speech in favor of popping the first few buttons of his overcoat, yanking the fabric down, and dipping low to set his teeth to the man’s skin. He thanks the goddess for the concealing nature of their school uniforms, sucking a hot, bruising mark where he knows the high collar will cover it. Ferdinand’s pulse kicks against his tongue, high and frantic, and the heat in Hubert’s gut coils tight with anticipation as he hears the breathy gasp that falls from Ferdinand’s lips as a result of his bite. 

He litters sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over Ferdinand’s pulse, nipping at his jaw, pressing him back into the door so hard that he thinks he hears the hinges creaking. But Ferdinand doesn’t protest, just gets an arm around his waist and yanks him close, impossibly close, so close that Hubert thinks he’ll melt right into him. Those long, cool fingers slide into his hair, curling in the dark strands and giving a light tug, and _oh,_ it’s like he’s been shot through with lightning, a lick of burning heat right at his core. He can’t help a groan as Ferdinand does it again, the temptress, huffing out a laugh as he takes advantage of the newly-discovered weak point. 

“Who knew,” Ferdinand teases. “The untouchable Hubert melts into a puddle as soon as I get a hand in his—ah!”

He forces the man into silence with a well-placed hand on his thigh, kneading the skin through the light fabric of his trousers. He can just barely feel the beginnings of the place where the fabric tents outward, betraying Ferdinand’s arousal, and he purposefully avoids the spot as he circles his fingers to press firmly against his inner thigh. 

“Would you like to rephrase?” Hubert rumbles, lips against Ferdinand’s throat, as the man flushes and squirms beneath him. His lips are parted, full and pink from Hubert’s kiss, and his eyes are just slightly hazy as he presses into that almost-there touch at his thigh. He’s beautiful. He _glows._

“Hubert, please,” Ferdinand begs, shifting with the impatient longing of someone who knows what’s coming and dreams only of accelerating the process. He tries to move his hips, to force Hubert’s hand where he wants it, but Hubert’s other arm is a vice across his hips, and he holds him there as he writhes. “I have already waited a week, I cannot wait any longer!”

Hubert doesn’t let up. He inches his fingers inward, reveling in Ferdinand’s eagerness, and smirks when the man attempts yet again to shift. “I didn’t get the chance to court you properly, but I will at the very least take my time with this. I promise you will have everything you desire by the end of this night, but until then, please…” He brushes a questing hand just barely over the tent in Ferdinand’s trousers, then just as swiftly moves it up to tug at his waistband. “Have a little patience.”

Ferdinand practically goes to pieces at the sound of those words, his shoulders slumping, his hips twitching at the barest brush of Hubert’s hand. Hubert wonders if he’s touched himself to thoughts of this over the past week, muffling the shout of his name into a pillow as he tugs himself to completion. He wonders if Ferdinand has spread himself out over the pillows, one leg hitched against his chest as he panted, writhed, chased after that pleasure that only Hubert could truly give him. He imagines it—the sweat beading at his hairline, the tight bow of his spine, the sweet huff of his labored breath—and he can’t help a sharp, low sound, knowing that soon all of it will be his, _his…_

Ferdinand takes quick and unforgiving advantage of his distractedness. The instant Hubert’s grip softens, he reaches down with one shaking hand to knock his hands away. Fumbling fingers tug loose the lacing of his trousers, and though he doesn’t remove them he does sigh in relief as he is given leave to move, to slide an arm around Hubert’s waist and tug until their lower halves are joined through several layers of fabric. The man gasps at the contact, taking a moment to compose himself in the face of what must be the same wave of prickling pleasure that is currently making its way down Hubert’s spine. 

“You cheated,” Hubert accuses, though it’s hard to take issue with Ferdinand while he’s like this, lax and pliant and panting and moving his hips in these sharp, rolling hitches that steal Hubert’s breath away. 

“Mmph,” Ferdinand agrees, his eyelids fluttering. He grabs at Hubert’s hips and leads him, taking control and chasing his pleasure. Hubert knows he should stop him—he wants to pin him down and drag this out, wants to take him apart until he can’t say anything but Hubert’s name. But it is oh so difficult to find the will to do so, as those tiny bolts of pleasure light him up inside and stoke the slow fire that is building in his gut. Ferdinand is so beautiful like this, and he feels so incredibly divine against him, an unexpected wave that pulls him under and keeps him there, crashing over his head whenever he tries to rise. He is drowning, drowning, _drowned_. 

Then Ferdinand gets a thigh pressed up between his legs, and Hubert’s addled mind finally snaps back to attention. He will _not_ have this happen up against the door of Ferdinand’s dorm room. As good as it would feel to pin the man there and rut to completion, this is _Ferdinand_. An angel, a hero, someone who deserves the best. 

“Ferdinand,” Hubert whispers, the first word he’s spoken in what feels like an eternity, but what has probably only been a few minutes. “Wait—”

The man just whines against him, face buried in the side of his neck. Hubert feels the prick of teeth over his throat, and his knees very nearly turn to jelly beneath him. Ferdinand has one leg hitched up over his waist, now, pressing them _so_ very close together, and Hubert feels suddenly that he is being _done_. Who’s supposed to be in control here, anyway?

“ _Ferdinand_ ,” he repeats, more urgently. “Ferdinand _wait_ , please wait, I want to—want to undo you, want to make you feel _everything—”_

Ferdinand gasps like a drowning man at that, getting his arms around Hubert’s shoulder and crushing them together. He wraps both his legs around his waist, and it’s the perfect opportunity for Hubert to lead the two of them back to Ferdinand’s bed and turn, letting Ferdinand fall back against the mattress. 

The man separates from him reluctantly, bouncing atop the sheets and gazing up at Hubert with this downright _starving_ look on his face, like he wants to eat him alive. Hubert has a brief moment of wondering just what he’s gotten himself into here, before all doubts are washed away by the frost-white slope of Ferdinand’s neck and the graceful bow of his spine as he beckons him down. His overcoat is still popped open, baring a considerable portion of his chest as the material pools around him like a curtain. 

Too much clothing, Hubert decides suddenly. Entirely too much.

Hubert descends upon Ferdinand with questing fingers, reaching for the buttons of that blasted overcoat and popping them one by one. Ferdinand squirms and does his best to return the favor, plucking desperately at the complicated lacing holding Hubert’s cloak together, but his hands are shaking with pent-up arousal and he doesn’t get far before he’s letting his arms fall back against the mattress in defeat. His chest heaves with anticipation as Hubert works the final few buttons loose and discards the garment, yanking his undershirt off with it. 

Hubert is unsurprised at the beautiful, sculpted muscles that frame Ferdinand’s torso, a testament to his prowess in battle. He trails a feather-light touch down his chest and over his stomach, smirking at the way those muscles ripple in a mixture of ticklishness and enthusiasm, arching up into his fingers. He thumbs over a rosy nipple and Ferdinand whimpers. He kisses there, tonguing a bold path behind his fingers, and is rewarded with a groan of pleasure. 

“Goddess, Hubert,” Ferdinand chants, over and over again, like he’s forgotten everything else. He releases a shuddering breath when Hubert returns to that spot, mouthing over it with abandon. There are fingers in his hair again—twisting, pulling, guiding him right where Ferdinand wants him—and the pull does wondrous things to his lower half. He is aching, hard as steel, and Ferdinand’s soft moans are doing nothing to remedy the situation. 

Ferdinand reaches for his cloak again, making renewed effort to strip it from Hubert’s shoulders. Hubert has to lean away in order to wrestle it off, aided by Ferdinand’s fumbling fingers, and then he is left in only the billowing embrace of his tunic. That too is done away with by a few clever tugs, and then he is bare, bare as Ferdinand, save for his trousers and the white gloves that he really should have taken off ages ago, but he couldn’t bear the thought of—

Ferdinand catches one of his hands between both of his, drawing it to his face. Hubert is confused momentarily, until a wet, pink tongue darts out to dab at the white fabric. A fleeting touch, barely there, but Hubert can’t chase away a shocked breath when teeth follow, grasping at the tip of the glove and tugging upward. Ferdinand strips the fabric away with his teeth and presumably has no idea just how stunning he really is. 

His hands—Hubert keeps his hands covered for a reason, doesn’t like to display the marred skin, blacked where years and years of dark magic have taken their toll. But Ferdinand doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even blink. He presses a kiss to the pad of each scarred finger, dabs his tongue to the besmirched skin, traces the electric lines of black all the way up his wrists. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t draw away, doesn’t ask what happened. He just _accepts_ him, just kisses where deadly magic has kissed Hubert’s skin a thousand times before, and Ferdinand’s care seems to strip away all of Hubert’s insecurities over those old and creeping scars.

“This is why you wear the gloves?” Ferdinand whispers, hardly looking up in between the soft, reverent press of kisses to Hubert’s fingers.

“I… Yes. I didn’t want to advertise the consequences of my power.” It’s all he can manage at the moment, with Ferdinand placing those kiss-swollen lips to his skin in his own special form of worship.

Ferdinand just hums and presses his thumbs into the pad of Hubert’s hand. “It is our secret, then.”

Hubert tries to think of something to say to that, but he fails. His other hand is given the same treatment, stripped of its glove and worshiped, and it gives him time to appreciate how Ferdinand looks under him. Flushed and relaxed and comfortable, lips wrapped around the tip of his thumb.

It pains him to pull away, but Ferdinand is still entirely too clothed for his liking. Some of his clinging eagerness has faded with the gentle worship of Hubert’s hands, but Ferdinand still squirms and murmurs impatiently when Hubert begins to tug at the loose lacing of his trousers. 

“Easy, love,” Hubert whispers, surprising even himself with the gentle adoration in his voice as he finally works the front of Ferdinand’s trousers completely open. “I’ve got you.”

His hand hovers there, giving Ferdinand the chance to pull away if he’s uncertain he wants to go through with this. But all he gets is a tender hand at his wrist, guiding him down, and then Hubert finds himself with a hand against Ferdinand’s arousal and wonder in his eyes as he takes hold of him, experimental, and watches the way Ferdinand’s mouth falls open with pleasure. 

All of Hubert’s suspicions are confirmed as he tests the weight of Ferdinand in his hand and, giving him a cursory stroke, feels that he is already slightly slick with the remnants of bathing oil. 

“You’ve already pleasured yourself tonight,” Hubert whispers, hot against Ferdinand’s ear. “Were you so taken at the thought of my return that you simply couldn’t help yourself? And now here you are, already hard and leaking for me. You’re so _eager_.”

Ferdinand seems to absolutely incinerate at the sound of those words, pupils blown wide, lips parted to accommodate a moan. “Yes,” he manages, “ _yes_ , I could not _help_ myself, I wanted—wanted you, Hubert, _oh_ , and you were taking so long, and I needed—!”

“I know exactly what you need,” he murmurs, sliding his hand slick and loose against Ferdinand’s length. His head is bowed, lips pressing against the shell of Ferdinand’s ear—and as he strokes, unhurried, Ferdinand’s head tips forward onto his bare shoulder. Breath, hot and damp, pants out against his skin as Ferdinand twists. 

“Hubert, _Hubert_ …”

“Do you think you can go again so soon?” he whispers, and Ferdinand gives a sharp thrust up into his hand in answer. “Good—I’m going to wring you dry, Ferdinand. Pin you down and coax you over the edge so many times that the only word you remember is my name. By the time I’ve finished with you, you won’t have the strength to so much as stand.” 

Ferdinand responds with another thrust, sloppy and loose, and Hubert smirks. He’s discovered something here, and he intends to use it.

“How many times do you think you could go?” he presses further still. “How far could I push you before you couldn’t take any more?”

Ferdinand opens his mouth to respond, but is caught in a choked moan when Hubert chooses that moment to twist his wrist and tighten his grip ever so slightly. “I-I went twice on my own, once,” he manages, voice shaking. “Just, I never…never had much of a— _oh_ —reason to test my l-limits…”

Hubert pretends to consider, but he already knows what he wants, and what he’s going to do. “I’ll have to go easy on you this time, since it’s your first,” he concedes, bowing his head to hide his ruthless smile. “Three times, I think.”

“T-three? I…oh…”

Hubert is once again ready to catch his words with a twist of his wrist, pressing a thumb where he can tell Ferdinand is the most sensitive. The man’s brow furrows, and Hubert lets up as not to end the first round of their little game so soon. 

“You’ve already gone once, right?” Hubert questions. “That means just two more. Two more, Ferdinand, doesn’t that sound reasonable?”

The man’s eyes go wide and hazy, and Hubert knows he’s considering his limits. Evidently he reaches a favorable decision, because he delivers an agreeable kiss to Hubert’s cool lips. “Take me apart,” he whispers.

Hubert takes him apart.

Ferdinand’s pants, already open and loose, are shoved down and removed with a few quick yanks. Hubert follows the trail of the fabric with his lips, paying special attention to a recent scar on the side of the man’s knee. He stops to unlace and discard Ferdinand’s boots, leaving him entirely bare against the deep red sheets. 

“We are uneven,” Ferdinand tries to say, reaching for Hubert’s pants, but he never gets the chance. Hubert slides down, mouthing at the skin of Ferdinand’s belly before delivering a light nip to the inside of the man’s thigh. Ferdinand goes impossibly silent, watching with parted lips, and Hubert feels that warm coil in his stomach jump at the feel of those eyes on him. The tightening of that coil is all the inspiration he needs to take the next step.

Hubert would be lying if he said he’d never done _anything_ of this nature before, as he leaves a sucking kiss against the head of Ferdinand’s cock. Though rare, he has had his fair share of tumbles with men and women in his path. Mostly, his exploits have been political. Clever, strategic choices meant to ruin the people he beds, through blackmail or seduction or some other manner of treachery. Because of that, he has almost no idea what he is doing now. This is something he never deigned to perform on his past partners, as he didn’t care for their pleasure. That is why now, steadying Ferdinand with one hand and using the other to loosely fist his base, he is at least slightly intimidated. His lips still tingle from that kiss, smoothed over with bathing oil, and he absent-mindedly tongues at his lower lip to renew the heady taste. The oil makes him taste of lavender, earthy and somewhat bitter, but the taste is heavenly against his tongue because it’s _Ferdinand_. Still, he is uncertain. But then Ferdinand’s hand lands back in his hair, gentle, guiding, and Hubert releases his control.

He stoops and, keeping every facet of his body perfectly relaxed, allows the head of Ferdinand’s cock to slide into his mouth.

Ferdinand groans like he’s been shot, twisting his fingers in Hubert’s hair. He doesn’t push, doesn’t shove—but the pressure there is a comfort, grounding Hubert amidst a sea of overwhelming sensation. 

“Easy,” Ferdinand gasps, repeating Hubert’s earlier words. “Go slow, do not—do not rush yourself. I-I do not think I will last long.”

He takes the words as a challenge, and sinks down a few inches. His lips press around the length of him, lengthy and unbelievably thick, and he resolves himself to take it all. He wants to _destroy_ the man, leave him gasping and begging, and this is as good a way as any. 

Sure enough, Ferdinand is already writhing beneath him. He whimpers and moans as Hubert tugs him with the tight suction of his lips, pulling up only to slide back down, taking him just a few centimeters deeper each time. And oh, Ferdinand wasn’t lying when he said he wouldn’t last long. He’s already twitching, worked practically to a frenzy by Hubert’s weeklong absence and his earlier teasing. As Hubert uses his teeth to apply pressure to the back of his tongue, stroking Ferdinand from inside his mouth, he sees the man’s expression screw up with coalescing pleasure. A hitching, building whine, huffing out whenever Ferdinand exhales, builds suddenly and abruptly higher as the head of his cock finally bumps against the back of Hubert’s throat. He shoves his thumb into his palm to stifle his urge to gag and _swallows_ , sucking Ferdinand down. It’s alarming at first—he can’t _breathe_ —but he forces himself to calm down and inhale through his nose, absorbing the slightest thrust from an overwhelmed Ferdinand. 

_No different from mastering a particularly difficult spell,_ he tells himself, humming around the length that presses his throat open and holds it there. A challenge, to be sure, but if he can break Ferdinand into pieces as a result…

Ferdinand’s breathing goes rough and shallow as Hubert draws back, only to slide back down, _down_ , swallowing hard around his cock. “W-won’t last,” he tries to tell him again, a warning, but Hubert pays him no mind. He can feel how close the man is already, no doubt a result of toying with himself earlier that day, perhaps mere hours or even minutes before going to greet Hubert upon his arrival. 

He takes to this task with singular focus in that same fierce way he dedicates himself to his studies, and the comparison should be rather unflattering, he thinks, but with Ferdinand writhing so prettily beneath him he can’t quite bring himself to care. The hand in his hair is soothing, encouraging, but never once does Ferdinand try to push him down. Ever the perfect gentleman, even in matters such as these. Hubert would laugh, if he wasn’t too busy sinking himself down on Ferdinand’s cock.

The hand in his hair tightens its grip as he hums again, questing, bobbing his head in single-minded determination. He feels the muscles in Ferdinand’s thighs tensing beneath his free hand, and he squeezes reassuringly as his cock twitches against his tongue. He’s close, Hubert can tell, so he redoubles his efforts—delivers a tight twist of his hand, sinks down as far as he can go, tongues along the throbbing vein he can feel jumping beneath his tongue—and is rewarded with Ferdinand’s head falling back, his lips parting to let out these deep, gulping breaths as he tenses, squirms, and finally—

“Ah, Hubert!” Ferdinand gasps, and for the first time the grip in his hair becomes almost painful, pushing him down as his hips thrust up, giving these soft, shallow hitches into Hubert’s mouth. His entire lower body seems to coil, taut as a bowstring, before Hubert feels the pulse of Ferdinand’s release hitting the back of his throat. _Two,_ he counts silently, riding out the aching scalp and sore throat that comes with Ferdinand’s excitement. 

The bruising hand releases its grip, goes gentle and petting against Hubert’s scalp, and he is finally given leeway to pull off of Ferdinand’s softening length. The back of his throat feels tender and used, and there’s a slight crick in his neck, but it’s all worth it to see the blissful expression on Ferdinand’s face as he lies there, limp against the mattress. His chest is still heaving, and there’s a shimmer of sweat to his bare skin.

“Hubert,” he pants again, stunned. “I…wow, I…”

Hubert cuts him off with a sharp nip at his collarbone, sliding up his body to suck a bruising mark to the pristine skin. He only makes it a moment before Ferdinand is grabbing for him with fumbling hands, guiding his face up to claim a proper kiss. 

“One more,” Hubert informs him, mostly teasing.

“Oh goddess, Hubert, give me at least a moment! Here, let me…”

Ferdinand breaks off to grunt in frustration as the lacing of Hubert’s trousers proves to be too much for his shaking fingers. He gives up with a frustrated tug at his waistband, letting his hands fall lax against the sullied sheets. 

“What am I to do with you while you’re in this state?” Hubert sighs, catching a hand before it reaches the bed and delivering a soft kiss atop each knuckle. “Utterly helpless. I could do anything, and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

“Tease,” Ferdinand accuses, though he still sounds out of breath. “We both know where this is—oh! _Going_.”

Hubert arches a brow. “Do we, now?”

_“Yes,”_ is the desperate response, and Ferdinand leaves no room for doubt as he yanks Hubert closer, slotting his hips in between his spread legs. Hubert is sure the move must be uncomfortable—his trousers are slightly rough, and Ferdinand is surely oversensitive—but he shows no signs of discomfort. 

Hubert extricates himself from Ferdinand’s grasp with a hum of admonishment. “Be patient, now. It wouldn’t do for you to overwork yourself.”

“I thought that was the _point_.”

“The _point,_ Ferdinand, is to work you just to the point of ecstasy. _Not_ to knock you out prematurely.” But even as he says it he’s reaching for the bedside drawer, working off of intuition as he searches blindly for the vial he’s sure Ferdinand has used once today already, using his spare hand to strip off his trousers and undergarments.

“Second drawer,” Ferdinand corrects once he realizes what Hubert’s up to. He looks almost nervous as Hubert emerges with a half-empty bottle of oil, which is amusing seeing as they’ve already seen so much of each other. Still, Hubert dips to kiss his insecurities away, swallowing the man’s answering sigh of satisfaction.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs against Ferdinand’s lips. “Are you sure you want…?”

He nods fervently. “I apologize if I seem nervous. I—I have been waiting for this for so long, and I do not want to mess anything up.”

Hubert doesn’t laugh because he knows Ferdinand would probably take offense, but he can’t help the amused smile that spreads across his face. “My dear Ferdinand, there is nothing you could possibly do that could ruin this moment. If you were to force me to leave here and now, I would still be satisfied with what you’ve allowed me to do this night.”

As he watches, a tick of that nervousness drains out of Ferdinand’s eyes. He smiles and says, “In that case, please—let us continue.”

Hubert needs no further engorgement. He slides a stray pillow beneath Ferdinand’s hips, easing some of the pressure on his back and giving Hubert the perfect angle to work with. He bows to kiss Ferdinand again as he slides his hand along the smooth expanse of skin that has been bared to him, brushing just the tips of his fingers along the cleft of Ferdinand’s ass. He receives a slight shift and a murmur in response—eager, but still sensitive—and he draws away for just a moment to allow Ferdinand to acclimate to the position. 

“Are you ready?” he inquires, drizzling a hefty amount of the oil onto his blackened fingers. “It may be uncomfortable.”

Ferdinand flushes brighter than he has all night and says, “I, ah—I do not think it will be all that uncomfortable. You should not have a hard time. I—I, um...already…”

Hubert has to work very hard not to do something foolish, driven to ridiculous heights of arousal by the implications of those words. His chest feels tight, electricity dancing in his gut as he stares at Ferdinand in wonderment. 

“Come on,” the man urges, closing his fingers around Hubert’s wrist and guiding his hand down, sliding past his cock to press against his entrance. “I want you, Hubert.”

“I— _oh_.” The breath is punched out of him by the feeling of the oiled pad of his finger pressing against that hot, hidden part of Ferdinand’s body. He applies only the barest of pressure, eyes fixed on Ferdinand’s face as his brow furrows with pleasured anticipation. “Ferdinand,” he whispers, mouth dry, and he is rewarded by the urgent press of the man’s hips down on his hand. 

“Do not make me beg,” Ferdinand pleads, doing his best to work his hips down on the finger that Hubert is very purposefully keeping just out of reach. Then, when his request is met with nothing but teasing, “Please, Hubert— _please_.”

Hubert very much wants to make this moment last forever. But his own arousal is starting to get to him, cock hanging heavy and dripping between his legs, and he knows he won’t last unless he moves this along. He sets his mouth to Ferdinand’s, nipping lightly to distract from any potential discomfort, and sinks that finger into him up to the first knuckle. 

There’s little resistance. Hubert’s entire body seems to tense with anticipation as he realizes that Ferdinand had indeed been telling the truth. He’s worked himself open recently, probably not long before Hubert’s arrival, and he’s still slicked and partially loose to the touch. The thought of Ferdinand lying in this bed and working his own fingers into himself with Hubert’s name on his tongue makes him groan, breathy and hopelessly aroused. 

“Hubert,” Ferdinand whispers, mirroring his fantasy, and it’s every bit as sweet as he imagined. He slides that one finger in further, all the way to the base, and Ferdinand only hums and hitches his hips against his touch. “Mph, Hubert…keep going.”

As if he’d considered stopping. Hubert moves with more confidence now, getting a second finger in alongside the first. He works Ferdinand with just those two fingers, stroking along his insides, petting his silken walls with a firm, self-assured touch. And Ferdinand simply hums in satisfaction, breathing out in these soft, wet huffs, curling his fists in the sheets and digging his heels into Hubert’s back as he tries to restrain his squirming. 

It’s not quite the reaction he’s looking for. Hubert frowns in concentration, sliding his fingers as deep as they can go, searching. He moves his fingers in tight, high circles, looking for—

“Ah!” Ferdinand chokes out. The furrow in his brow disappears and he _moans,_ a deep, enduring sound, turning to press his cheek into the pillows. His eyes slide closed seemingly of their own volition, and Hubert works him with the gentle slide of his fingers over that spot, over and over again, drinking in the answering gasps and moans. _Found it,_ he thinks, half amused, half serious, and does everything in his power to keep those sounds pouring from Ferdinand’s mouth. The man’s cock is already stirring, twitching impressively against his stomach, and Hubert purposefully avoids it in favor of torturing Ferdinand with his fingers alone. 

Ferdinand’s breath hitches. “Please,” he whispers, but the word is largely lost to the slick sounds of Hubert’s fingers inside him and his own panting. “Please, I cannot—I want—!”

Hubert silences him with a particularly skilled stroke of his fingers, and the man’s insides seem to clamp down on him momentarily. Ferdinand’s body is singing, rolling and hitching as he chases Hubert’s touch, and it’s so very satisfying, and he wants—

Ferdinand leans up sharply and, sloppy and unrestrained, sets his teeth to Hubert’s collarbone in a vague imitation of a bite. Hubert freezes at the touch, at the sense of gravity in the air, and waits.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand begs. _“Take me.”_

His restraint snaps.

Hubert devours the man with a kiss as he slides his fingers free. Ferdinand protests the lack of contact with a sigh, but he is fully occupied with Hubert’s lips as the mage swiftly and deliberately reaches back for the vial, slicking his cock with oil. His own brief touch is enough to send a jolt of pleasure right to his core, and Hubert curses the knowledge that he won’t last long. Ferdinand is too sweet, too beautiful, and he knows that the feeling of the man around him, consuming him, _owning_ him, will be too much.

Hubert hitches Ferdinand’s other leg up over his shoulder, baring him in his entirety. It’s a beautiful sight—Ferdinand lying there, half-hard and glistening with oil, watching him through hooded, anticipatory eyes—and Hubert wastes no more time. He draws himself forward and, keeping one hand steady at the base of his cock, lines himself up with Ferdinand’s slicked entrance. 

He can’t help but watch Ferdinand’s face as he nudges the head of his cock against him. He presses forward, slow but strong, and finds himself transfixed with the way the man’s expression goes lax with a mixture of pleasure and discomfort, murmuring at the feeling of the stretch. One hand flies to Hubert’s shoulder, gripping hard, nails biting into the skin, and the other falls limp against the mattress. His palm is up, open—and Hubert wastes no time in taking it, lacing their fingers together and bringing Ferdinand’s hand to his lips for a soft, worshipful kiss. The fact that Ferdinand trusts him enough for this, enough to let himself be seen open and pliant and _wanting_ , strikes him right in the most tender part of his heart. That he could be this unguarded for him, _just_ for him, leaves him flushed and so, _so_ very reverent. 

Ferdinand’s bares his throat as Hubert bottoms out, sinking as far into the man as he possibly can. The movement is an invitation, a plea—and Hubert answers that plea, dipping down to mouth gently at the bruising skin. Ferdinand’s hands are claiming, grasping, digging his fingers into Hubert’s back and dragging down as he acclimates to the feeling of someone else inside him. He’s whispering something—praise, pleas, desperate attempts to get Hubert to move—but Hubert doesn’t hear a thing, lost in the feeling of Ferdinand squeezing tight around him. 

It is— _heaven_. Hubert has never believed in such a thing, but now he knows he’s found it here with Ferdinand. The flutter of his muscles clenching around his cock, the tight heat of those slick walls, the press of his lips and the bite of his fingers on his back, in his hair…all of it, _divine_. He releases a shuddering exhale against Ferdinand’s skin, fighting the battle to compose himself before he so much as allows himself to twitch his hips. But when he finally does— _oh_. 

Hubert gives a short, gentle roll of his hips that does little more than bump Ferdinand slightly higher up on the bed. He barely pulls out, just pushes and feels and revels in Ferdinand’s shaking, pleasured whispers that he’s good, feels good, needs _more_. He swallows down those whispers, kisses Ferdinand like he’s the only thing that matters, and right now he _is_.

Ferdinand’s fingers tug mindlessly at his hair, and Hubert chokes back a moan as the action is accompanied by the press of the man’s heels into his back, pulling Hubert as deep inside him as he can possibly go. Lightning coalesces in his belly, tingling, almost numbing in its intensity, and he stills to stop himself from finishing then and there.

“If you want this to last,” he gasps, breathless, “you will have to stop _teasing_.”

Ferdinand laughs at that, but he loosens his hold on Hubert’s hips and lets his hand slip out of his hair. “I suppose my beauty is simply too much for you to bear. I should have known that you would be overcome by it.”

Hubert shuts him up with a hand on his cock, only half-hard but quickly swelling, and Ferdinand is quick to exact his revenge in the way he lifts his hips just slightly, drawing Hubert out of him by a scant inch before bringing them back together. And _oh_ —that’s it, that does it. Hubert takes hold of the man’s hips, his own pale skin seeming somehow even paler against the smooth jut of his hipbones, and begins to move.

He starts slow, just because he knows it will drive Ferdinand insane. He keeps the grip on his waist completely restraining, absorbing each and every effort to rise up to meet him, to take control of the situation, holding Ferdinand against the mattress without compromise. It _does_ things to him, watching Ferdinand whimper and whine and struggle to shift, to meet Hubert’s shallow thrusts, and be completely powerless to do so. It makes him want to tie him down and take him like this again and again, while he is entirely unable to move. A dark thought, perhaps—but it sticks in his head, makes him groan quietly as he savors the slow drag in and out, the intensifying coil of pleasure in his core. 

“Hubert, _please_ ,” Ferdinand begs. “Let me move, let me—let me ride you, let me do _anything_ to—!”

Hubert bites at his lips, slides his tongue along Ferdinand’s and steals his breath. He accompanies the kiss with a harsher thrust, and judging by the way Ferdinand clenches around him, back bowing up off the pillows, he knows he’s found his sweet spot again. 

Ferdinand’s protests die down as Hubert abuses that spot, lengthening his thrusts and beginning to take him in earnest. The feeling of Ferdinand’s muscles fluttering around him with each slide against that spot is _maddening_. The clench of it, the sweet, slick slide, the incredible squeeze around his cock—it’s almost too much to take. His hips snap forward almost convulsively, drawing a needy whine from Ferdinand’s throat, and the sound encourages him to do it again, and again. The rhythm he sets is punishing, slow but _hard,_ each thrust terminating in the wet, oiled slap of his hips meeting Ferdinand’s ass. Still, the man does everything in his power to meet those thrusts, his eyes going soft and hazy with pleasure. Hubert catches him reaching for his cock, lying hard and neglected against his stomach, and he slaps his hand away with an admonishing murmur. 

Ferdinand’s eyes slip closed as he moans, low and deep, when Hubert closes a hand around him. He does his best to thrust into Hubert’s hand, and without both hands to restrain his waist, Hubert quickly loses the battle to keep him still. It’s a different kind of pleasure, watching Ferdinand fuck himself between his hand and his cock, and the sight of it makes Hubert jerk his hips that much harder, striking Ferdinand’s sweet spot with abandon as he applies the barest twist to his wrist on the upstroke. Ferdinand is absolutely _writhing_ now, lost, wanting, tossing his head as he pants against Hubert’s shoulder and grasps at him with pleasure-weakened hands. Nails bite into his skin, dragging, surely drawing blood, but the pain only serves to heighten his pleasure. 

Ferdinand doesn’t even have the breath to warn him he’s getting close. He doesn’t need to, in any case, because Hubert can see the signs of how close he is written all over his body. It’s in the desperate way his lips part to accommodate his loudest, wildest cry yet, his cheek pressing firm into the dampening pillows. It’s in the way he reaches for Hubert’s waist and holds him, guiding his thrusts and hitching his hips up to meet them in short, circling motions. It’s in the way his heels dig into his back, pulling him close and helping set that maddening pace. Ferdinand wants him to go faster, he can tell—and now, as he feels the man’s muscles clenching sporadically around him, he knows the time is right. He forces back his own pleasure and focuses wholly on Ferdinand, on his furrowed brow, on the tip of his tongue as it pokes out from between his kiss-swollen lips. He watches that furrow deepen as he slows his pace momentarily, teasing, toying, just to watch some of that desperate madness creep into his expression.

“Please, _please_ ,” Ferdinand whispers again, low and begging, and Hubert doesn’t hold back.

Hubert’s slow but harsh thrusts turn quick and punishing, guided by the hands at his hips and the heels digging into his back, and as astoundingly good as it feels, it feels even better to watch Ferdinand fall apart. That furrow lessens as he’s finally given what he wants, Hubert striking high and deep with every thrust. Hubert can’t help but brush a thumb along that lessening crease at his forehead, cupping his cheek in a brief moment that feels almost strangely sentimental in the midst of something so base and carnal. But Ferdinand leans into that touch, lost to pleasure, his movements growing shaky with his impending release, and it feels _right_. 

After that, it’s quick. Hubert returns his hand to Ferdinand’s length and strokes, keeping his grip firm and demanding just as the man likes it, delivers a few more deep, pounding thrusts, and that’s all it takes.

Ferdinand’s entire body locks up, and for as noisy as he’s been for the rest of the night, he’s almost entirely silent as he releases for his third and final time. His pleasure is betrayed only by the absolutely crushing way he grips Hubert’s shoulders, coaxing him into deep, rolling thrusts that slow to draw out his release, grinding along that high, sweet place inside him as Hubert’s other hand strokes him through it. A sparse amount of white, sticky fluid splashes his hand, spurts against his palm, and the slick of it eases the slide of his fingers along the man’s pulsing length. Hubert’s teeth snap into his own bottom lip as Ferdinand clenches around him in waves, involuntary and rolling, and he feels himself draw close to completion. It’s all he can do to slow his pace as Ferdinand comes down, careful not to overstimulate him in those tender few moments after his release.

Ferdinand gasps for breath as he finally reaches down to remove Hubert’s hand, surely sensitive to the point of pain after being coaxed to completion for a third time that day. He looks like he wants to say something, but his words are lost to the aftershocks of pleasure that grip his entire body, drawing him tight around Hubert’s cock. Shaking, Ferdinand can only communicate with the rubbery wave of his hand as he uses his trembling legs to urge Hubert to chase his own release.

It’s all the permission he needs. He replaces his hands at Ferdinand’s hips and, with single-minded focus, thrusts up into him with the sole intent of reaching his completion. The pace he sets is rough, maybe even brutal, but Ferdinand doesn’t protest. He merely moans softly and allows himself to be used, lying pliant and loose against the dirtied sheets as Hubert takes him. The pleasure is incandescent, _blinding—_ and then Ferdinand reaches up and twines his fingers into Hubert’s hair again, tugging, twisting, and Hubert’s mind goes blank.

He thrusts up into Ferdinand a few more times, rough and uncoordinated and desperate, and shoots his release deep inside him. 

Hubert can’t help a throaty groan at the feeling of Ferdinand squeezing him through it, at the feeling of his release flooding the man’s insides. His forehead falls against Ferdinand’s collarbone, sweaty and hot and oh so sweet, and he rides out the final wave of his completion with a last, short bump of his hips against the man’s ass. 

He comes down rather slowly, caught up in the divinity of the moment. It isn’t until Ferdinand gives a soft whine beneath him, shifting in an attempt to separate them, that he realizes he needs to move. He slides out of Ferdinand with a wince, sensitive from having just finished, and flops bonelessly on the bed beside him. 

Ferdinand laughs breathlessly, and he sounds every bit as exhausted and satisfied and _loving_ as Hubert feels. “Wow,” he whispers, flinging an arm up over his sweaty forehead. Hubert can only agree in a groan. “We should have done that far sooner.” 

Hubert reaches for him. He tries to pat at his cheek affectionately, but misses and ends up just kind of smearing his hand along the man’s chest. “Quiet,” he mutters. “We’ll have plenty of time to make up for lost time later. For now, just…give me a minute.”

“Oh, give _you_ a minute?” Ferdinand teases. “I am the one that just opened up to accommodate you, but I’m sure _you_ are the one that needs a moment to recover.”

“ _Ferdinand_ ,” he protests, exhausted.

Ferdinand smiles and says, “Easy, love, I was only joking. Though, I will certainly be very sore tomorrow. You are, ah…rather well endowed, and it seems that my penchant to tease you to roughness may have been a bit much for our first time.”

Hubert straightens. “I’m sorry—did I hurt you?”

“Oh, no!” Ferdinand leans to kiss him again, slow and unhurried. “You were perfect. If I made you feel half as good as that, I will be satisfied with my performance. Perhaps next time I could…?” He trails off, unable or unwilling to finish the request, but Hubert knows what he’s asking.

And really, the mere suggestion that Ferdinand _hadn’t_ made him feel the most incredible pleasure of his life prompts a smile of his own as he says, “Ferdinand, my dear, you were more than enough. After all, this night was about _you_. Next time we can see about you being able to—what was it you were just suggesting? To touch me? To pin me down and have me, as I did you?”

Ferdinand goes bright red. “I, um…yes, that sounds good.”

He smirks. “Then we will make that happen, next time. For now, I think a bath is in order.”

“That does sound heavenly at the moment.” Ferdinand pries himself up off the mattress and gives an immediate wine as the movement tugs at his muscles. He must already be feeling the effects of what they’ve done. “The baths will be the perfect place for me to begin to return the favor.”

Hubert arches a brow. “As nice as that sounds, I think going four times in one day may be a bit much even for someone as energetic as you.”

“You misunderstand me, dear Hubert,” is the scheming response, and Hubert’s stomach flips at the glint in Ferdinand’s eyes. “I am most certainly done for the night, but by my count you have only finished once. Let us see if we can up that, shall we?”

A spark of almost painful arousal flares to life in Hubert’s stomach. “You are going to be the death of me, Ferdinand von Aegir,” he says, and Ferdinand’s answering laugh is just a bit too devious for his liking.

“I told you, I am planning on keeping you—that means you have to stay alive for a long, long time!” Ferdinand grabs his hand, placing a delicate kiss to the blackened skin. “Now come on, get up! You are carrying me to the baths.”

“Am I, now?”

“Oh yes, my poor, delicate body just cannot handle walking after stretching to accommodate that monstrosity you call a—”

“Okay!” Hubert interrupts, blood rushing to his cheeks. “Just…give me a moment, and I’ll carry you right into the water.”

Ferdinand leans back and smiles at nothing. “My hero,” he quips.

“Your hero,” Hubert agrees, and rolls over to slide his legs off the side of the bed. He takes Ferdinand in his arms, a solid, warm weight against his bare skin, and prepares them for the bath.

* * *

Hubert awakens sore but comfortable, with Ferdinand’s hair in his mouth and an arm thrown around his waist. They’ve surely slept through their first class, based on the amount of sunlight streaming in through the window, but Hubert can’t quite bring himself to care. He is, for the first time in a very, very long time, _content_.

He can only hope that Ferdinand feels the same. When he looks down at the man, at the gentle slope of his eyelids, the slight curve of his slack lips, he feels like he’s burning alive with happiness. All of his darker thoughts, prevalent as they may be, have dissolved in the face of that brightness.

Hubert is so lost in thought, watching the rise and fall of Ferdinand’s chest, that it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize that Ferdinand is now watching him. He startles, and Ferdinand’s smile grows.

“Good morning,” he says, voice low and rasping from sleep. 

“Good morning,” Hubert echoes, taken with that charming smile. “I do believe we’ve missed our first class, my dear.”

“Have we?” He sounds entirely unconcerned. He reclines into Hubert’s arms with a sigh, pressing his mussed hair to Hubert’s skin. “What a pity; I think we are about to miss the second, too.”

“A pity indeed.” Hubert bends an arm to curl his fingers through that fiery hair, combing out the tangles that have formed as a result of sleeping so soon after bathing. He sits, propping himself up against the pillows to get a better angle, and Ferdinand lays his head in his lap without hesitation. 

Ferdinand closes his eyes as Hubert continues his ministrations. “Hm,” he hums after a moment, when Hubert’s fingers work their way to the base of his skull. “Hubert…are we going to talk about this?”

He stills. “Talk about what?”

“Come now, do not be difficult.” He doesn’t open his eyes. “I fully intend to do this again, as many times as you will allow. But still…we never exactly discussed what this was going to be.”

“It was assumed, was it not?” Hubert questions.

“Assumed, yes. But I would like to hear the details of it aloud.” Ferdinand does open his eyes now, reaching up to cup Hubert’s jaw. “Tell me where you stand, and I will do the same. Hold nothing back—I need to hear the truth of it from you.”

Hubert shifts, discomfort beginning to settle in. Now that the euphoria of the previous night and the chaos of the past few weeks has lifted, he is finally able to ruminate on what it will really mean to have Ferdinand. All of the potential for love and happiness and cheer, yes—but also the potential for death and loss and regret. The potential for Edelgard’s coming war to rend them in two, separated mere months after their initial joining. It’s with that in mind that Hubert frowns, conflicted, and knows that he has no choice but to speak his mind.

“Very well then,” he says, raising slightly atop the pillows to look down at Ferdinand’s relaxed form. “I will hold nothing back. You need to know that I care for you, but that my first priority is still to the Empire. My duties at Edelgard’s right hand are more important than anything else.”

Ferdinand props himself up on one arm and looks at him, freshly-combed hair hanging messily over one eye. He tucks those wayward strands behind his ear and asks, “Do you mean that?”

“Yes,” he says, with absolutely no conviction. Because he knows, deep in his heart, that he has already gone back on that promise. He attacked the Death Knight, one of the Empire’s most valuable pawns, purely out of the desire to save Ferdinand. Not only that, but he had aimed to kill. He can tell himself now that he wouldn’t have gone through with it, that he would never have actually let one of his spells pierce the Knight’s heart, but he isn’t so foolish as to believe it. In that moment, facing down the Death Knight on the battlefield, he had been fully prepared to kill him to preserve Ferdinand’s life. It is something he cannot deny. It is, perhaps, just one of the many reasons that it would be smarter not to engage with this man. 

Hubert is a smart person. Or at least, he likes to believe so. But for once in his life, he thinks he will allow himself to do something truly, irreversibly _dumb_.

Ferdinand’s expression is neutral as he says, “I have no intention of keeping you from your duties. No matter how I might feel, I understand that our responsibilities to the Empire will always have to come before our relationship. But that being said, I need to know that you want _me_. That I am important to you, and that you would do everything in your power to stay at my side. I need to know that even if it is inconvenient for you, you will stand with me. No matter our responsibilities, no matter our convictions—we stand together. I will accept nothing less.”

Hubert thinks, bitterly, about the plans Lady Edelgard has for the future. And he permits himself to wonder, against his better judgment, if Ferdinand will really have the stomach to stand with them when the time comes to execute those plans. If the man will hate him once he realizes that all this time, Hubert has been plotting. That he’s kept secrets from him, and will continue to do so.

Those questions weigh on him as he slides a hand down Ferdinand’s bare shoulder, catching his wrist, twining their fingers together. It is entirely possible that, in a few months’ time, Ferdinand will take back all of these pretty words. When he sees fire and destruction rain down on the monastery, he may turn his back on Hubert for good. But for now…

For now, Ferdinand is his. And Hubert allows himself, for the first time in a long time, to say something wholly, completely _honest_.

“I want you,” he says. “You are dear to me, Ferdinand, and I vow to stay by your side. To do absolutely everything in my power to protect you, and to stand together throughout battles that no one else would dare to fight. For as long as I can…I promise you that.”

For as long as he can. For that, and no more.

Ferdinand brightens, entirely unaware of the poison that has just been shot beneath his skin. “Then I will promise you the same,” he says. And means it, Hubert is certain. “We may not know what will happen next, but for whatever comes, I wish to walk a path beside you!”

“Together, then.”

He holds Ferdinand there, burning, and wonders how long fate will allow him to have this man. If he can truly protect him throughout the coming war and into their future. If he can truly stand beside him, with his own grim responsibilities at Edelgard’s right hand. If Ferdinand would even want that, once he realizes what’s truly going on behind the scenes. 

He wasn’t lying. He will indeed do everything he can to keep Ferdinand beside him, alive and well, through Edelgard’s march on Fodlan. He fears he will do _too_ much, considering what he very nearly did to the Death Knight. But in the end, he knows that _Ferdinand_ is the one that will have to choose to stay beside _him_.

The hands of a clock twist brutally in his stomach. Counting down the seconds, the minutes, the hours, until the inevitable. 

Ferdinand brushes a light kiss to a dark spot on Hubert’s shoulder and then turns, throwing back the covers. “Come on, then!” he chirps, cheerful as ever, stretching out his presumably sore muscles and reaching for a fresh set of clothing. “The sun is fast ascending, and it is high time that we ate. You will be joining me, yes?”

Hubert blinks, and the future recedes into shadow. 

“…Yes,” he relents finally, setting his bare feet to the cold floor. “I will join you.”

“Fantastic!” Ferdinand grabs his hand and pulls, drawing him over to where one of Hubert’s spare uniforms is folded on his desk. Hubert takes a moment to wonder just how and why it’s there, but then brushes the questions aside in the face of Ferdinand’s endless consideration for him. He dresses, somewhat stiffly, and buttons his collar high to hide the marks. 

Ferdinand reaches over and pops the top button with a smirk. “Leave it,” he says. “I wish for everyone to know that you are mine.”

And to that Hubert can only laugh, surprised and genuine, and reach over to tug at the frills Ferdinand wears around his neck until some of his own bruises are visible. “Even footing,” he says by way of explanation. “I’m hardly concerned with people thinking I’m yours. I’m _far_ more concerned with our classmates understanding that you are mine, given your propensity to be flirted with.”

“Am I really all that stunning a person?”

“Ferdinand, my dear…” Hubert gets an arm around his waist and pulls, turning the man around for a kiss that quickly turns scathing and messy and _perfect_. “You are brighter than the sun itself.”

“If I am the sun, you must be the moon,” is the teasing response. “So very different, but no less alluring.”

Hubert draws away, but keeps a firm grip on Ferdinand’s arm. “Let us cast aside such ruminations until after I’ve had my coffee, and you’ve had your tea.”

“Hmm, no. I think I will be having coffee today.”

“I was under the impression that the bitter flavor revolted you.”

“Truly? I think I have come to somewhat appreciate bitter things.”

Petals of warmth blossom in Hubert’s chest, and he offers Ferdinand a genuine smile. “If that is the case, we can enjoy a cup together.” And Ferdinand, angel that he is, merely leans his head against his shoulder in agreement.

“Yes,” he says, brilliant as ever. “I would like nothing more.”

* * *

Hubert has always operated in the shadows, wearing the darkness like a second skin and wading through moonlight. But for now, and _only_ now, he raises his hands and walks beside the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Geez, what a journey! All my fellow artists/creative writers know that feeling of staring at something so long you hate it, and I kind of did that with certain parts of this story, but I'm still really happy with the result! If you enjoyed, don't hesitate to shoot me a comment, I love talking with y'all!
> 
> Until part two!


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